BEHOLD THE RUINS OF CHRISTMAS


It is dark now; the streets are already empty at sunset. All the joy present remains within the walls of houses that are lit with candles and festive lights; the families within that contain it. It is the day before Christmas.

And yet there is a chill outside, silent and smooth, lingering on the doorsteps of those houses, never welcome. Accompanying it are the burning orange disc high up in the sky before it goes down tumbling into night as well as the cold touch of regret, felt through a caress on the cheeks that sends needles down the icy skin which expand and explode, like how love shatters the heart. Occasionally a shadow from the human crowd juts out into vision – just for a fleeting vision amidst the cold general void of the night – before flickering and disappearing. A floating hat, a floating cape, a floating staff; o, the stars studding the sea of the night, glimmering vastly like jewels forever away from here. Snow slowly gathers.

The streets are empty. A poor man in rags – a coin is tossed into his ragged hat which turns out almost empty save for that coin that was tossed in it and a collection of dust and dusty snowflakes. He manages barely an acknowledgement; the pity staring at his entire form is too strong and humiliating. Past him is a heap of snow, way in front, upon the frosty pavement. The cleaning men have not come. Maybe it is too cold out here. Looking straight the horizon looms into view, but straight ahead is the city square where only emptiness and the homeless reside. A left turn is made. Into Ilium Street and beyond. It is remarkably quiet. But looking and peering closely, ears wide open, one can hear the soft mellows of tunes.

Located overhead is the church. Entering it the magnificence of the stained glasses and the tapestries and the altar can be truly beheld. However the church is not well-lit; the services have long ended and the next is yet to begin. An old man and an old couple are seated on the pew, the latter a little ahead. They are conversing quietly. There is a fire blazing within the other old man's eye. His hat is lopsided to the right, where he cannot directly see. His mouth stiffens with each cycle of one of the candle's soft melting; but his eye is only upon the couple – occasionally upon the majestic organ that never plays.

Exiting the church its bell tolls. It is seven and it is truly dark now. Truly alone; slowly the walk commences. The inertia of life has pulled me back, hence I walk slowly. My stomach is also empty. The burning orange disc has sunk into the water of the night. Located within my pockets are my small packet of cigarettes and a silver lighter. I have never bothered to polish it; I take both out and smoke, just once, determined to see for myself the elusive smoke entering my eyes, deblurring them from the illusion that actually surrounds me. My cape flutters in the wind and in spite of the presence of a destination – one that I will linger briefly at, but still one – I walk slowly.

Arriving at the Avenue of Oedipus, I halt my movement. There I recall a number – 6 – and continue towards it. I have come from the other end of the street. Six is the number that forms a family and keeps it together. Six is the harmonious motherhood. Snow gathers, more and more, flakes brushing my arms.

This time I stop at the sixth gate. It is the sixth house. No one is watching; no one is remaining on the streets with me. The poor man in rags may have frozen to death already. The lights are bright inside. Take away most of them, and it turns into a spectacle of a universe, its brilliance radiating from the marvels within, galaxy upon galaxy of light and wonder. I am watching the people dine. There are six people dining.

Already are presents heaped at the foot of the Christmas tree. One looks like a parcel – maybe a piñata, another resembles a thin stick – possibly a sweet of some sort. It is a mountain of colour which the tree grows upon. The food on the table is rich – turkeys and glasses of wine, potatoes and baked peas with butter and currant sauce and fresh fruits and rice puddings. I hear the table groan with content.

I softly hear some music. No longer the hymns or some instrumental work, but a carol that evokes a gaiety into us:

Oh the weather outside is frightful

But the fire is so delightful

And since we've got no place to go

Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!

How warm it must be inside, with the heat from the fireplace and the love! O, the snow gathers faster and faster out here, blurring my view some more, and I am cold. My soul feels very empty. I see four elderly folk seated, their faces blurred but distinctly red from the wine and the heat. I see him there. Next to him I see her.

They are sharing a toast. The crystal glasses chink and the wines go down their throats. They are laughing and they are kissing. The song goes on, and the magical instruments sound their way through the chorus as the singer puts on his last show. He is cutting a leg of turkey and he passes it to her. She delicately accepts it and eats it. Perhaps simultaneously the theme from Estrellita plays, and summer upon a lake commences, where the other four are gone and it is just the two of them. The same table, just shortened, the food lighter in tone, yet equally rich. They are still kissing. Their embrace, so tight, takes something from me.

I am frightened. Her lips move in a graceful fashion to say something. They bear the colour of a pink rose. It is probably something sweet. But I cannot feel this sweetness' intensity, in fact, I cannot feel it at all.

Suddenly her eyes fall upon the window I am staring through. She has seen me… but it is over soon and I do not know whether she really knows it or not. I do not think she knows whether I am still around. I do not think she even remembers me.

My heart a bitter soul. Silently I turn, but not before reaching the letterbox. From the inside of my cloak, from the depths of my heart, I fetch out a parcel and slip it into the letterbox. I have tried; God save the day. I have made myself clear, my entire existence clear. He who has taken that warmth away from me knows it too. His fecund cunning has produced his swift mask that hides his entirety, the socks that take up space where they do not belong. So too, is his knee, that trampled me when I was down. God bless him.

'I love you', I said to her, even though she cannot hear it. She is still laughing merrily with him, at him for his indecent humour, and his perfect face that shows nothing. It is warm in there. Slowly I turn, away from this stolen warmth. I do not want to become that old man that sits forever looking into others with that sadness and hate. Slowly I turn, away from them, away from her, and vanish into the night.

It is dark now, but I think I see light.