Kavita sits at the welcome table by the entrance of the church basement. It is her first night running the table alone since she started volunteering with the bereavement group a few months ago. They expect a big turnout tonight. The last meeting before Christmas is always crowded.

Her notes are tucked inside her purse. It took her about a week to compose all the things she wanted to say about her experiences as a suicide survivor. It took another week to practise the words out loud. As she did, in front of her dresser mirror, she scarcely trusted that the healthy person being reflected back to her was her own image, just as she scarcely recognized the sound of her own voice.

Her thoughts rewind to where she had been at this time last year. As she gazes around the room, at the regulars preparing snacks in the kitchen and gossiping, the newcomers sitting off on their own averting their eyes, and all versions of mourners in between, she smiles, grateful she chose to breathe in life again that night.

She can’t help but chuckle at the kitschy plastic Christmas tree twinkling beside the snacks, its wire branches heavy with red and gold bobbles, multicoloured lights, and fistfuls of chrome-shine tinsel. Some of the mourners have filled out snowflake cards to their departed and tucked them into the bare patches of the tree. Kavita hasn’t written a message to Sunil yet, but might before the night is done. In the background, she catches notes of her favourite holiday song, waits for the most touching lyric, then sings along with Bing Crosby: I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams.

Along with the cheer this time of year can bring, she can’t deny the absences also brought into keen focus. Of course, there is Sunil, whose absence is always so present, but especially now when thoughts turn to family togetherness. And her parents’, who aren’t coming home for the holidays. And also someone she misses keenly whenever she finds herself in the church basement: her friend of friend’s, Hawthorn.

She reaches into her purse and pulls out his most recent postcard. The image is an enviable panoramic of a secluded beach with turquoise waters and a solitary highlighter-yellow surfboard planted in the sand. She can expect an update every couple of weeks or so, the postcards like snapshots of his latest excursions—ziplining through the canopy, bungee jumping over a river gorge, surfing on beaches that appear too pristine to be real.

Her only regret about tonight is that Hawthorn will miss her talk. He asked her to record it and send it to him as a Christmas present, but she has always hated the sound of her voice on tape.