Gingerbread

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.

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