It was a soft December night
where the moon drenched the star-dotted sky with a murky glow and
the flurries fell to the ground in a violent but silent current.
The ground was crisp and covered with purifying paleness.
A boy sat on cold and bleak railroad tracks nearby
and peered at a cracked crystal watch that hugged his bare and shivering arm.
It was a gift from his late father bestowed to him seemingly a lifetime ago.
The boy looked through the glittering glass of the watch and realized what day it was,
It was Christmas.
The boy didn’t really think much of the holiday,
but as he sat in the darkness of that December night, remembering,
fat tears swelled under his dirty and tired eyes.
He buried his face into his arm and eventually stood up.
The boy, slender and scantily clothed,
drifted through the quiet winter night.
As the boy pressed on,
a familiar sound pierced the stillness of the night
just as the first firework over the sky on the Fourth of July.
It was music.
The boy looked around and saw where the soothing and comforting noise
was coming from, the church on High Street.
He had never really gone to church, especially now that he was all on his own,
almost sixteen years old.
The building smoldered with a welcoming glimmer of light.
The boy grasped the frosty handle of the enormous door to the sanctuary.
It was heavy and he eagerly struggled to reach the solace inside.
A barrage of warmth and security overtook the boy.
He collapsed to his knees and, immersed in the burning light,
A man approached the boy and gazed at him with mellow blue eyes.
He gave the boy a woolen blanket and carried his freezing body to
a simple bed secluded in the rear of the building.
The humble man served the gaunt child warm stew and hearty bread.
The boy, now somewhat strengthened, grasped the older man’s broad shoulder and whispered the words:
The wise and elderly man, exposing pleasing wrinkly dimples, only smiled.
Then the boy knew in his very heart what day it was and
what everything that day had meant,
It was Christmas.