The impossible dream

Every Christmas Eve she sat in front of the Christmas tree staring at the twinkling lights, admiring the coloured baubles.A different colour scheme every year-once red, then green, then purple, then pink and white. Her pilgrimage to the lounge, from the comfort of the attic, had become an annual ritual. She lost count of how many times she'd done it-was it ten, twenty, a hundred years?
Although dazzled by the opulence of the decorations, she wanted nothing more than to taste the mince pie on the plate and the glass of warm milk beside it. She wanted to relish the sweetness of the fruit, the delicate hint of warm spice, the crunch of the shortcrust pastry. She wanted to feel it tickle and tantalise her taste buds and send her gliding round the room on a sugar merry-go-round, before sliding down her throat. If only she could have it.
But alas when she reached out her wispy, white hand it swept clean through the pie, like a drifting mist, for she was nothing more than a forgotten ghost.