"Chestnuts roasting by an open fire" The song begins in the background amidst the chatter, the laughter, the glass clinking, the barmaids yelling, the wind howling, and i stop. For a moment, a split second perhaps, or maybe an hour, the line hits me, sends a shaft of pure energy into my heart, and melts it. Tears roll down my eyes, slowly, like dew down blades of grass at the touch of dawn. What a sweet idea. Chestnuts beside a fire. Playing in the snow. Christmas carols. Presents. Kids staying up to catch sight of jolly ol' Red. O what a grand idea! "Bartender another warm apple cider please!" With a grunt the not-so-jolly red-faced bartender places a small styrofoam cup filled with apple cider on the counter. Maybe he's not so happy about deciding to make the cider free tonite. Instead of downing this one i wrap myself up in my clothes, and carry it out to battle the cold. A blast of frost pushes me back as i open the door, but i push back, to the doorway, across it, and pull the door shut behind me, all the while shielding the cup of cider. I must keep it safe, keep it warm. Quickly i start walking, almost trotting. I hold the cup under my clothes, one hand over, one hand under. I must keep the cup warm. Above, the moon swims behind a sea of dark clouds, almost invisible in the snow decorated air. Almost. I know she's smiling down on me. She must be, that mistress of the nite, else i wouldn't feel the comfort i feel inside, even though Jack Frost seems to be pounding on my nose rather than nipping, and the wind saws against my bones through my clothes, through my flesh. Just two more blocks, only two more. The elements are harsh. No matter how much heat my body generates as i hurry, still chills travel along my back. My face feels numb my feet even number, and it feels like the Reaper is out tonite with his cold glove reaching for my throat. Ah, but the cup is still warm, my hands are still warm. That's all that counts. Just half a block more. I puff warm clouds into the air ahead of me, and quickly they disappear. Must hurry. So close. And yet i can feel the Reaper drawing just a lil bit closer, cutting away the distance between us with his chilly scythe, bringing icicles down to sting my skin. Or maybe they are hailstones. Could be simply snowflakes. In any case, as i reach out to grab at the door, i can feel Him breathing on my, sending goosebumps down my spine. "I've got you," He says. "You are mine." But i rush into the room, out of the storm and slam the door into his face. Not because i want to live; no, if it were just me i'd happily enjoy his cold embrace, but i have to keep the cider warm, and i have to deliver it. Inside, although not much warmer than outside, there is no wind to cut away at me, and no snow to trip my feet. Not enough to anyhow. I relax, and look around. "I'm back!" And the sounds of feet scuffling bring my head around just in time to see my illuminating wife and my 6-year-old son coming out from the other room. "Here. I've got it." And all the warmth i ever need surges into me as my son smiles, delighted at the cup i conjure from under my clothes. Forget the chestnuts. Cider can and has brought me more joy than i could possibly have imagined. "Merry Christmas, son." I had kept it warm; I had done right. The gasp he emits after his first sip tells me the former, and his twinkling eyes tell me the latter. My wife, my enchanting wife, somehow, magically i think, manages to stay so beautiful despite our two room shack(it cannot properly be called a house, no matter how hard i try to make it seem so), our lack of a fire against the cold, and the small amount of cash we manage to muster up each week with our combined total of 5 part time jobs. She comes to me and gives me a hug. "Welcome home," she says. "Merry Christmas." That's all, but it's enough, and after my son finishes his last gulp he joins us in our familial embrace. Turkey and mistletoe indeed. Ol' Cole forgot the cider and the hug. For my wife i had prepared something gorgeous, to match her warm smile. I walk over to the corner, and from under our dying potted bush i lift up a panel i had created a week ago to hide my gift. The compartment is empty. Where is it?? Slowly i begin to panic. Behind me, a soft giggle stops me cold. Well colder anyway. I turn and i realize that my wife has been wearing the necklace since i got home. I laugh. "Well i guess i was just a tad bit overconfident to think that you wouldn[t discover that. Merry Christmas, honey." "Thank you so much. I love it! Where on earth did you get this? How much did it cost?" I cannot tell her that i had taken another job to pay for it. "Don't worry about it. Let's just call it a miracle." I give her a smile, and hope that she will leave it at that, but her suspicious frown tramples my hope. "You went and got another job didn't you? We agree--" "Hey, it's Christmas. C'mon. Forgive me? Besides, it's starting to get cold again. Let's go to the other room." "It's been cold, silly." But that's the end of it, and i'm relieved as we head over to the other room, lie down together on the springy mattress, all three of us, and snuggle against each other under the blankets. When we get comfortable, my wife begins her story, one about a young man who braves many terrifying obstacles to save an entire house of royalty. Her soft voice carries on into the night and spins us a better world to live in, at least for a few hours, and as i listen i think to myself, as i do each year, that her gift must be greater than most families receive each year. For this i am thankful.
Reason for writing:
Not a poem. Ran out of poetry in my head for now, so i go prose. Some people say the only difference between prose and poetry is structure. i guess that means i ain't very structured right now. go figure. o yes, and this is fictional, just in case anybody's wonderin, but it can all too easily be real. Be glad for what you have, my friends, and Seasons Greetings all!
Birth sign: Aquarius
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