God is the portable heater where Cookie, Klimey and Petey find peace and love. They stick their wet noses right up to the mesh screens and toast their whiskers; and sleep, one on each side (with the third snuggled tentatively behind). The son of God is the food bowl and water, which are now placed in close proximity. Double bliss, my children, double bliss.
There was always music on Christmas Eve when I was growing up. At church they turned the lights off in the sanctuary just before the processional, and the choir marched in with lighted candles. At home, father put the lights on the Christmas tree as we drooled over the wrapped presents underneath. We were not allowed to open any gifts until the 26th, which he called “Boxing Day”. I learned when I was quite young that the wrappings had a mystique about them that the actual presents did not. It was a shoe horn, hung on the branch of the tree for over a week dressed in purple paper and a red bow. After I unwrapped it I put what I had desired so fervently into a drawer and that was that.
“Is the grocery shop open?” How come the urge to shop is the greatest when everything is closed? How come I have to think twice before I say “Merry Christmas”?
Because someone like Dore will say “Humbug!”.
Dad woke up from a nap in his lazy chair and felt something heavy put on his lap. When he opened his eyes, he saw images of people on a screen happily waving their hands and shouting “Merry Christmas”. Dad asked in confused wonder, “who are these people?”
