I close my eyes, recline my seat, and try to sleep. It will not come. My mind wanders, swinging from thought to thought like a monkey from tree to tree. No, that is not right, monkeys are fun and happy, I have not been happy in a couple of years. This airliner is taking me home. At least for a time and to the physical place I call home, but home is no more.
A far different place than what I left in joining the Marines a bit shy of three years ago. It had changed and I had changed. Combat had been the impetus for my change. As for home, my father died a bit less than a year ago while rescuing victims of a gulf coast hurricane. My hero was gone. The man who I was continually told that I was the "spitting image" of and who I modeled myself after would not be greeting me at the door.
He was gone from this earth, but not my head. My head had become his residence after death. He accompanied me night and day. I heard stories he had told me as a boy about his experiences facing the hell of war. His stories revolved around a brotherhood and loyalty to those he served with. Especially to the man who had drug him to safety after he had taken shrapnel in the leg. This loyalty drove him to risk his life for others and drove me to do the same. Seeing my Father's face when one of my men received a bullet from a sniper, I became that man which Dad had spoken so highly of.
After the hurricane, I even wondered how much of a door would be left. Rather than home, I was actually just returning to my Mother for Christmas. Mom is an amazing woman; beautiful, strong, and intelligent. Even more so, she is caring and loving. Caring and loving of others to the point that she convinced me that my platoon needed me as their combat commander more than she needed me. Instead of grieving, Mom had spent the early months of widowhood helping the elderly after the killer storm.
By the tone of her letters, I could see that the loss of Dad was now weighing her down. My perky fun Mom was neither fun nor perky to talk with. Efforts at consoling her were rapidly brushed away. She claimed to be too old to date. She claimed to not be sexy anymore. I knew this was not true as she had always garnered the attention of men and even my friends as I was growing up. Instead our phone conversations revolved around me telling her stories of war. She said they helped as it reminded her of reading letters from Dad.
Stepping off the plane, I saw her as beautiful as ever. Her face held a smile. We hugged, as she held me her voice whispered in my ear.
"It is Christmas Eve. Wipe the sadness from your face. Time to live, time for both of us to recover. We will not be spending this precious time together in anything but joy." As we separated from our embrace, all bubbly, mom began telling me of our plans for the evening and Christmas. It would be a Christmas just as I had remembered.
Relaxing in front of the fire, full from Mom's amazing cooking, I sipped cognac. As we began reminiscing, Mom handed me a present. We had always opened one present on Christmas Eve. Every year I was disappointed to get pajamas. For once I remembered, and would not give her an ungrateful look.
I most certainly would not. Not only had I matured, but this year's jammy was a very nice black silk robe.
"You know the tradition. Go, put it on." Mom commanded.
In short order, I returned wearing the robe over my olive drab t-shirt and under wear. Her response was less than agreeable: "I do not think so young man! That green looks so tacky and I bought soft silk for it to be felt against your skin. Off with the skivvies!"
Returning with nothing on underneath, Mom lifted my robe to verify the absence of underwear. "Oh, you are much bigger than when I used to give you baths." As odd as it sounds, this actually broke some ice in that I had been wondering how I would keep from flashing Mom my cock while she sat across from me. Her light hearted personality did always know how to make people feel good and the robe did in fact feel wonderful against my skin as well.
For the next little while, Mom sat quietly remembering with a soft smile as I reminisced to her about Christmas Eve past. I confessed to her how I was always disappointed opening pajamas. I also confessed to her how the disappointment faded as I remembered the gift she would open just after me was always a sexy nightgown. Rather than going to sleep thinking about the toys under the tree, I went to sleep thinking about the nightgown and just what Mom would look like in it on Christmas morning. Looking into her eyes I told her how beautiful she was every Christmas morning. It was the one time each year that I got to see her breasts through a sheer nightie. I conveniently left out looking at her pubic triangle and even getting glimpses of her shaved pussy one Christmas morning. I also failed to mention that my lovely Mother in lingerie is what I thought about in my tent the last couple of Christmas mornings. "You know Mom, as a real small boy I wondered why Dad did not get a present on Christmas Eve? Did not take too many Christmas mornings to figure out what his present was."
