The
snow was cold. There was no ignoring
that. It was the irritating itchiness of
his borrowed wool jacket that was driving him insane. The man didn’t complain, though. For starters, there was no one nearby to
complain to. Secondly, with the sun
hidden behind the clouds and a bitter wind blowing from the east, the man was
lucky to even have a jacket at all. For
that much, the man was grateful.
Small pieces of the white flurry
stuck to the man’s brown, scraggly beard.
His soulful blue eyes searched the land for shelter, but the white sheet
of snow prevented him from doing so. His
feet had stopped being cold long ago. He
had been on the road for days and though his boots were still in good
condition, he had become oblivious to the pain that attacked his feet. Numbness had settled in long ago. Everything from his mother to yesterday’s hot
chocolate in Denver crossed his mind.
Both warmed his soul. These were
the thoughts that carried him forward.
Six years had passed since the man
had left home. This Christmas was the
one he would make it home. Anger had
carried him away all those years ago. It was the anger of loneliness that forced
him to return. He had adhered to a
strict life while growing up and only wanted to break free from it. The chain held by his father needed to be
broken. The man gathered what money he
had and left. He hopped on the bus and
just left. No destination in sight, the
man let the spirits carry him away.
It killed him to leave his
mother. She was the one light in his
dark life. Her energy had kept both of
them alive. The last letter he got from
her was at Christmas of the second year of his absence. The man’s father had died and the letter was
riddled with desperation. The man was a
failure. He was a man without a home and
he could not return. Even in death, his
father had won.
The night grew deeper. The man was close. The arrival in his mind was perfect. His mother would be there, alone and lighting
the Christmas tree. The man would walk
through the front door; frozen but full of hope. Her eyes would be a waterfall of tears. Minutes would stretch into hours and hours
into days. Life would begin for him once
again.
The man hadn’t bothered to
call. The idea of pure joy overwhelmed
him. Nothing provides the body with more
sensation than the love of mother and child.
The last of his money was spent on a pair of used mittens he purchased
from a thrift shop. His fingers, now
swollen, now used the mittens as nothing more than decoration. His journey was nearly complete and the
heavens could feel his heart grow.
As he rounded the corner and stepped
onto Sycamore Street, the man’s legs began to tingle and his feet thawed out. The snow intensified now,
nearly blinding the man. His heart showed
him the way. Odd memories began to creep
in. Good ones, bad ones, sad, happy; all
of them. Friends long gone and times
well spent. His father was there. His mother as well. She was the fire of his life. He threw his tattered scarf around his reddened
face and stopped. Chills attacked his spine
as the thought of his return grew closer.
He approached the house. There were candles in the window that
illuminated a well decorated room. The
man slowly approached the house. His
eyes peered in and his heart dropped.
Inside this hallowed vault stood a Mother, a Father, and their young
child. A lump grew in the man’s
throat. The life he once knew had moved
on. As the man continued to watch
through the frost bitten window, the mother lifted her small child in her
arms. On top of a beautifully lit tree,
the child placed an angel fresh from its package. As he watched the family embrace, the man’s
eyes slowly leaked. For the first time
in years, the man smiled.
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