| December
25, 2003
magi
This
is my forty-seventh Christmas morning. Flakes of snow have fallen
on my roof, icicles have sprouted on my fascia boards. I held out
longer than most, a curious distinction, nothing more. Lines have
been etched in a face that appears increasingly wise and tired. Some
lines are pleasing; others are not. A few lines were earned but,
for the most part, my face is bureaucratic. Stripes are meted out
for time served regardless of merit.
This
Christmas of my forty-seventh year is clear and cold. The house is
filled with anticipation, the anticipation of a coming sameness.
It's early and still dark outside. Fetching the newspaper, I gaze
into the sky and spot a bright star just above the horizon. A Christmas
star! Wait. Strike that. It's a controlled-burn flare
at the petrochemical plant across the lake. A sense of wonder gives
way to sensibility and foreboding. |