Twas the Night
The rain finally falls on Christmas Eve and everyone stands at the window, holding strong drinks and smiling, not saying much, just watching. The streets get slick and shiny. Puddles form. Drinks are refreshed, cheeks flushed. The winking tree is reflected, refracted in the wet glass. Someone starts singing a carol, softly. No one else joins in and the voice trails off. The rain becomes sleet and everyone sucks in their breath. Let it snow, let it snow, let is snow. But the puddles just widen. One by one, they drift away from the window leaving a small boy to continue the vigil. The lights are turned on, making it hard for him to see. He cups his hands against the glass. Harsh laughter behind him. The sound of something breaking. He doesn’t look. If he waits long enough he’s sure he’ll see Santa, trailing after seven or maybe eight reindeer, soaked and shivering, laden with presents, falling like a stone.
Copyright, 2012 Cliff Burns (All Rights Reserved)
From the collection Stromata: Prose Works (1992-2011)
Causes Cliff Burns Supports
The Stephen Lewis Foundation, Community Radio