Every Christmas, we would make gingerbread cookies.
I didn’t even like them much, but I would put the candy buttons on the men with a sense of purpose.
Until it stopped. Until we made no cookies and put up no tree, and skipped giving gifts, because there were none to give.
It didn’t matter anymore. I didn’t care for those gingerbread men. There was no need to go through the motions of having a merry Christmas.
There was nobody to give good childhood memories to anymore. They had all been negated anyways.