Better than Charlie Brown's tree. |
The woman's voice on the recording sounded ghostly and a little ethereal. All of us were dead silent, transfixed to the sounds coming out of the speakers, as the woman sang about snow and mistletoe; a wintry Christmas that was completely foreign to me.
Maybe a moment of self reflection was happening. Maybe people were thinking about the wives, husbands, children, friends, and family that were left behind back at home. People that are looking at their dinner table and seeing an empty spot where mom or dad, son or daughter used to be.
As the woman with the melancholy voice sang the familiar refrain "I'll be home for Christmas..." one of the guys in my unit said loudly and derisively "well, I won't."
And just like that, the spell was broken. People in line, holding their trays, forks, knives, and spoons, chuckled, if only wistfully. And life went on. Just like it always does here. Another day, another day.
And as people started talking again, and the music was drowned out by the general bustle of the chow hall, the last lines of the song were barely heard, and largely ignored by the people in the building:
"I'll be home for Christmas,
If only in my dreams."