Ghost of life past

The days from December 8th to January 6th are the worst for me, every year, and the feeling of terror is growing.
Terror of facing those days without the usual festive activity of buying a new Christmas tree (a real one, which we planted in the garden afterwards), of putting on the lights in the kitchen and outside, of thinking about which present we would be buying for ourselves. I miss Alberto and me doing those things!
This time of year is the moment when the ghost of life past visit me. It tells me of the life I lost, it opens the drawers and the doors of wardrobes forcing me to look at all those things that belonged to that life.
At first, the year after Alberto's death, the visit of the ghost was kind of welcome, because I could plunge into a sea of nostalgic and soothing memories. Now it is the opening of an abyss of pain and terror.
Every time I look at Alberto's collections there is only one though in my mind: he is not here to enjoy all these things. He will never be able again to take some old comic book or magazine and smell it, smiling with joy.
Our home is as dead as he is, soulless, empty. It's always like this, but more so during the end-of-year's festivities.
I wish I could skip these days, go to bed and wake up in mid January... or better... not wake up at all!