Danny wanted to believe in Santa but the pressure was on at school. How could a fifth grader still believe in Santa? He remembered the stories of Santa and Christmas Spirit told by his grandmother. He still wanted to believe. Danny tried convincing himself that Santa was real but was having difficulty and so he called out for his mother. Together they discussed the importance of believing in Santa and the Spirit of Christmas despite the disbelief of others. Secure in his mother's arms, Danny felt better and with a big smile shouted out joyfully "I do believe in Santa!"
From the distant house the holiday cheer could be heard, but none of the guests encumbered themselves to engage in a conversation or game with her.
She was alone in the field admiring the sole tree which was in full winter's regalia. There were no naked branches. Fluffed out pine needles were adorned with a coverlet of freshly fallen snow flakes. Simple pine cone ornaments-no more were needed to add to its glory. The chirping birds overhead reminded her that darkness was fast approaching. She whispered to the tree, "Tomorrow we can be alone again." Queuing for hours, he finally arrived at the grotto inside the Church of Nativity in Bethlehem. His Israeli-Jewish tour-guide, banned to enter the city in West Bank, dropped him at border. Three Palestinian youths in a green Toyota then brought him here.
Peeking inside, he imagined Baby Jesus rolling on that 14-point silver-star, marking his birthplace. Slowly, He started to morph into a malnourished Arab child whose country currently being blockaded by his powerful neighbor. He counted five ribs on each side of this emaciating child, dying in slow-motion. Inside the Manger Square, the decorated Christmas-tree, angels hovering, began sparkling. Mary feels her heart thumping. She motions Jesus to get her water.
“Please don’t go to the Mount today,” she implores. “I’m worried.” “Mom, my followers are expecting me.” "You’re such a martyr, Jesus. Why don’t you let other people hang from the cross? Why do you always have to be the one that gets your hands and feet nailed?” “Mom—Stop!” Jesus pleads, but she goes on. “Who cares about sinners? You’re dying for people you don’t even know. Get married and make babies. Be a normal person.” Jesus promises his mother that he won’t die. He bent the moon upside down and sent her a dream. It was up to her to choose its meaning. She was sewing her own wedding gown when the dream reached her and naturally replaced her shoulders. She felt no pain, only remembrance, of something lost many lives ago. Hers would be a dream of love and belonging, sewed onto her wedding gown. She and her dream became one. The dream maker turned the moon back into its place. Tomorrow he’d look for her groom on the field beyond the seven valleys. Today, his own dream was complete.
The small child, safely strapped into his car seat, listens.
His father drives. At first, his mother is silent. Until … "This is ridiculous. Why have you turned left?" "You always think you know best." "Because you take no notice. Just like …" "Oh yes? Like everything else I do wrong?" The child closes his eyes, covers his ears. Shuts out sight, sound. Instead, he tries to see lights from the Christmas tree, remember that song with the bells. Until … "Sorry," he says." "No, sorry," she says. Offers a kiss. The child smiles. The Christmas angel has safely returned. He presses the gun against the back of the man's head, ignoring his whimper - then, puts his finger, on the trigger. The man turns his head. As he does, the gunman sees the man as a little boy; the two of them dribbling a football till late at night. Then, under a frying sun they share a soda. As they grow older; Celebrations, grieving. A hug when needed. The big falling out.
The man has clenched teeth and wide-open eyes, the gunman too - both staring - at the trigger - already pushed - soon all the way in. The flowers are dying, vibrant colours transmuting to brown and would crumble in your fingers, turning to dust.
The young man had mixed drugs and alcohol foolishly overtaking a car on an A road. No-one in the car survived. He and his friends never thought of mortality, the Angel of Death visited the old and other people but that fateful evening it appeared to them! The woman peers at his framed photograph, kissing it. "You were a good boy, what a stupid way to die," she says out loud with fresh flowers in her hand. “Hey Buddy, spare a dime?”
“A dime?” “You know what I mean. A sawbuck. The dime thing…it’s a saying.” “Why don’t you say what you mean. Nobody says what they mean anymore.” “Fine. I mean, it’s Christmas. Can you spare ten bucks?” “That’s an interesting proposition. On the one hand, I can spare a tenner. On the other hand, I may be seconds from economic collapse. The ten spot I give you I might need back. Would you return it if I asked?” “What the…tarnation. If you give it to me, I’ll spend it.” “Good point. Better catch me later.” Ladies! Gentleman!
We are at war. Make no mistake. Christmas is…hell. Market share is the prize. The Holy Grail. Or, as I like to say, THE HOLY SALE. Make no mistake. Scratch any romantic notions you have about Christmas. Any foolish childhood imaginings. Those sweet and infantile days. We have no time for nostalgia. And no snickers. None. Simply not allowed. You are here because you have sacrificed everything to me. To the Store. My store. If we do not sell, we shrivel and die. Is that what you want? I CAN’T HEAR YOU. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Good! The battle has begun. “Tangy,” Dad announced, licking his lips.
“Different,” Mom added. Christmas dinner. We agreed to have my brother showcase the skills he mastered in a culinary arts course. “Wait!” he exclaimed. The rest of us watched as he tasted. An expression of bewilderment swept across his face. He got up. Ran back to the kitchen. Returned to sit down. “I emptied out the wrong pot!” he conceded. “Rum sauce was meant for dessert.” Mom sat stone-faced. I struggled not to laugh. “You mean, there’s no sauce for Christmas pudding?” Dad asked. “Does turkey gravy count as sauce?” brother pitched in. Granddaughter, Amelia, hovers over my head. She is a three-year-old practiced aeronaut.
“Gampa,” she squeaks. “Yes, my little bird,” I say, “What can I tell you?” “The same…about Sanna Caws.” “Santa Claus, my dear.” “I said that,” she snaps, her rotors twirling close to my naked ears. I regret my correction. These days, children are always right. “You did. Gampa’s sorry.” “Tell me ‘bout Christmas…how it once was.” “My love, it was special day. One day when the world imagined itself at peace.” “And now?” “Now,” I say,” Christmas is every day.” “That’s so fun.” “So sad,” I think. My family was all gone.
Age. Disease. Accident. Memory loss. That took out quite a few. More than our share. Christmas, once a time of mild familial enjoyment, became a time of stone-cold lonesomeness. I blame myself for the most part. I was married. Two kids. I suppose I didn’t pay enough attention. To Jeannie, mostly. I was a busy guy. Loved to work. It proved my metal. Let me be the man. Turned out to be bullshit. The company fired me. Jeannie split. Took the kids. I just stood there, calm as a toad. Watched my entire world erode. Gerry thought about his letter to Santa for three days. Two days left, he realized - better get going or else. Or else what? Would Santa forget him? What if there were no letters from anyone? Gerry wondered. He got out paper and a crayon, but couldn’t get going. This is hard, he said aloud. He tried all day and the next and fell asleep, the blank paper on his bed. Two mornings later his mother woke him, his bed covered with presents instead of the blank paper. Merry Christmas, she announced. He’d dreamt the letter, but Christmas was real.
The tunnel was endless, filled with voices he had never heard before. He paused just once, then moved ahead. Her voice followed him there after she left. As though she left only her voice. It was obvious she no longer loved him, but somehow she could not bring herself to leave without some reminder of their time.
He remembered he might leave something too. For her know he could not leave it behind – this love. One last voicing of her name. He shouted it through the wormhole where she lured him. Then he fell into the vortex, with his voice wrapping around her own. Echoes called back. The signs were there since university: he an English major, while she studied law, his liking for heavy metal and beer, hers for folk music and wine.
Notwithstanding, they bonded, declaring love as lovers do. The signs persisted: his wish for a civil marriage, her insistence on their church wedding, his humble schoolmaster job overshadowed by her stellar career as a barrister. Then came the kids… Now, the children grown up, they sit in the living room, he reading poetry, she studying her latest case. “Cup of tea, dear?” he asks. “Sure,” she says, their bond as strong as ever. They said it was the running fields of mystery millionaire Jay Gatsby the Great, gold-laced cobblestones and decadent with wild parties. That life there boomed with rows of pearls, white picket fences and diamond tiaras.
I was greatly enthused with the rest, till the crows flapped at the tipping point on the seawall. For what I saw, was gritty grey, people's faces the color of dark tea, shallow nomads padding it up, like it was they who were in a useless shanty town despite their baubles, and not I in my modest cottage, holes in the wall, and ugly sweaters Christmas Eve sleet slid down my cheeks, mimicking tears which would have been just as icy if cried directly from frosty feelings after she tossed me out of her cozy downtown condo with nowhere to go. Still, the storm was comforting, in a crazed way – a homeless refuge from the fickle shelter of a special friend who had flipped into an intense foe.
A reality away from the next day's ham gorging orgies and televised pro football concussion celebrations, I too was merry. In Starbucks, I blessed my coffee with a shot from my flask of whiskey. Their “staff”, were having a Christmas lunch in the pub, so the cats, Louie, Kitty, Sachin and Sacha, organised their own party. They invited Lexie.
“Woof,” she said. “That all you can say, Doggie?” sneered Sacha. “Why did we ask a species that can’t speak Cat?” Louie asked. “Who let the dogs out?” sang Sachin. “Woof.” In Dog, Lexie thought, “I should have stayed home..” Outside someone drunkenly warbled “Silent Night….” “Orderly queue!” ordered Louie., but Lexie was too big for the cat flap. The housekeeper opened the door. “Louie, what is that dog doing here?” she thundered. “Woof.” Isabel opened the book, tracing a finger over the faded inscription. ‘Izzy, Merry Christmas, Love, Grandma. Christmas 2018’. She’d loved that book and Grandma’d read it over and over.
She picked up another book. ‘Merry Christmas Ginny, Love Grandma Izzy. Christmas 2098’. Now she read to her own granddaughter. Where’d time gone? In fact, where had Grandma gone? In her rocking chair on Christmas Day, she’d disappeared. Full police search; nothing. Isabel sat back, eyes closed then snapped them open. “Grandma??? Where’ve you been?” “Everywhere. You ready to come with me? “Can I bring my book, Grandma?” “Of course, dear.” “Goddamn you to hell,” seethes Ross.
“Here’s better, home alone you’re in danger. There’s no service to come to your house,” replies his son. “Bullshit, it’s that bitch your wife. You’re too craven to admit it, you chickenshit.” “How can you let him speak to us like that?” demands the daughter-in-law. “He’s old, sick he doesn’t know,” excuses the son. “I’ll dance on your grave prick.” “Dad they will take good care of you.” “You do this after what I’ve done for you your whole life?” “Jesus he hates you, why do you care for him.” “Shut the fuck up.” Where can he be? It is Christmas Eve, and it is getting late.
The last time I saw him was two hours ago. I open the front door and shiver. It is cold outside. "Oscar, where are you? Please come home!" I shout at the top of my voice. I head to the kitchen for a glass of warm milk. It usually helps me sleep. Not that I plan to get any sleep until I find my beloved companion. Suddenly, I hear familiar barking. When I open the front door, I am nearly run over. Oscar has finally come home. Strands of lights strung upon trees and houses. Neatly wrapped gifts under the tree. Stockings hung from the mantle. Sugar cookies and egg nog. Carolers. Candy canes. Reindeer. Mistletoe. Poinsettias. Fruit cake. Garland and tinsel. Bells. Shopping for presents. Holiday music. Cards. Angels. Red and green. Silver and gold. Ribbons and bows. Nutmeg. The sweet smell of pine. Parties. Punch. Pie. Ham. Ugly sweaters. Popcorn strings. Chestnuts. Ornaments. Candles. Peppermint. Snowmen. Santa. Elves. Chimney. Scarves. Stocking caps. Mittens. Ice skating. Bells. Pudding. Gingerbread. Fireplace. Naps. Home. Grinch. Snowflakes. Toys. Nutcracker. Sleigh rides. Hot chocolate. Icicles. Holly. Wreath. Manger. Magi. Baby.
The door slid back and we survivors of the journey gulped in mouthfuls of clean, cold air.
A soldier grabbed my arm and dragged me onto the platform. Dogs barked. I tried not to limp. We were pushed, one by one, before a slight man in a dark green uniform, polished boots, Death’s Head cap. When it was my turn he studied me closely. He knew my leg hurt. “Age?” ”Seventeen,” I lied. He sneered, jerked his head to the left. Barbed wire lined the path. A soldier told us to undress. “Why?” “Don’t worry. You’re just having a shower." Lily lay on the couch, tears streaming down her red, plump cheeks.
"Why are you crying?" Dad offered her his handkerchief. "This Christmas I wanted ten gifts." She blew her nose hard. "You bought me just five." Dad sighed. "Those kids at the orphanage don't get even one." Lily wiped her cheeks. "I want ten more gifts by tomorrow." "You ungrateful brat!" He slapped her. "That's your gift." Next day he found Lily going door to door asking for Christmas gifts. He followed her, his blood boiling, until she reached the orphanage and his anger turned to love and bliss. |
"Classic"
|