A Christmas Story

Once upon a time many years ago, a boy lived with his mother in a small house in a small town. The windows of the house looked out on no where, and the sky was always gray.

It was December and cold. Christmas was coming and yet in the small house where the boy lived there would be no Christmas. The father had lost his job and had gone away to look for work. There was barely enough food for each day, and although the boy dreamed of Christmas and glitter and gifts, the sad and tired eyes of his mother prevented him from asking.

At school, the other children bustled with excitement over holiday preparations and festivities, but the boy kept his distance, holding back and watching the others as if by participating in any way he would be stepping out of what were his inexorable circumstances.

Christmas Eve arrived, and the boy was almost numb from the effort of avoiding it. He kept to himself most of the day, stacking wood and doing chores. Keeping busy would make time pass and with it the pain of knowing that Christmas would be only a word tonight.

Coming in from the woodshed late in the afternoon, it seemed to him that even the weather was shutting him out as dusk fell early and now there would be longer hours to sit and wait for that which would not come.

For a while, he sat on his bed, looking out the window, but his eyes grew heavy, and he fell asleep. When he woke, he went into the kitchen where the sights and smells that greeted him caused his eyes to grow wide with wonder.

Lit candles and evergreen boughs with tiny red and white gingham bows bedecked the table on which were plates of frosted sugar cookies and raisin cakes. The rich aroma of chicken pie and fresh baked bread danced across the room from the oven. Mother was smiling, and somehow in the cheery half world of the candlelight she didn't look sad or tired anymore.

And so the two of them, mother and son, dined together in a kind of splendor amid the evergreens and candles. There was laughter as they retold familiar scenes from years gone by, and they gaily sang the old carols as they ate the cookies and cakes. Then, while the candles burned low, the mother held the boy and recited once more the story being told the world over that night, how on another cold winter's eve long ago a young mother held her tiny son while singing angels filled the sky, and a bright star shone over a stable.

They sat together in the big chair for a long time after the story was finished. The candles spluttered and one by one went out until the room was lit by starlight alone. The boy sat very still, not wanting the moment to pass.

For the rest of his life, in better times and perhaps in worse times, he would remember the raisin cakes, the simple homemade decorations, the gentle voice of his mother, the soft feel of her arms around him; and he would remember what Christmas really was, and what it was not.