The Merriest of Christmases

Christmas dawn does not come early this year.  Up in the dark, I walk directly outside, for what purpose, I don't know.  The cat comes with me.  I stand in the cold air. . . listening.  Everything is quiet.  No jingling, no tinkling, no sound of stray animals sneaking through the leaves.  The cat stays close around my feet.

I look around the house to see, but there are no surprises, no secret card or present left me in the night.  I think about this before returning to the warmth of the kitchen.  

The cold in my head is breaking up, a good sign but miserable.  I put on the coffee and put down food for the cat.  

Late yesterday afternoon, I showered and left the house to get my mother a Christmas present.  I'd had an idea.  Feeling like a sick man, looking the same, I went to a single store.  Christmas shoppers made their final purchases.  I made my first.  

Driving home, I thought of what I'd missed this year.  I stopped at the grocery store to buy myself a small canned ham, some mustard with horse radish, and a loaf of  freshly baked sour dough bread.  Christmas dinner.  

It was all I could do.  The effort had wasted me.  I called my mother to tell her I didn't feel I could go out, but if she wanted, she could come by this evening.  She said that she would let me rest.  She'd see me in the morning.  

I microwaved a frozen organic enchilada and sat down before the television.  The cat jumped up beside me, lying on a sweater I had thrown down.  The next few hours were spent like this, both of us barely moving.  

The year is ending this way.  No matter, I tell myself.  There is next.  I have plans.  A year is a varied thing.  

And so . . . the sun is up.  No matter how I feel today, there will be champagne.  Mimosas at the least.  Wishing you the Merriest of Christmases.  C'est la vie.