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"Misty Voices: A Winter's Morning"

By the time you read this it will not be current,
but I'm writing at the kitchen table
on Christmas morning. 

It's a little chilly 
and the steam is swirling up from my coffee cup. 

Carolers are singing softly 
and there are church bells. 

I haven't opened the curtains yet 
but judging by the grayish light seeping through, 
it's a winter day. 

I haven't heard any snow shovels, 
but it's still a little early. 

I think I'll plug in the tree lights. 

Even through the closed curtains 
snow is visible in the corners of the windows. 
Holly and candles add color to the room 
and the silhouette of a Christmas wreath 
can be seen at the front window. 

As little as a couple of inches of overnight snowfall 
can blow into deep white drifts, 
so I feel around under the bed for my high top boots. 
The ones with the knife pocket. 

And I'd better get out my blue flannel shirt. 
The checkered one. 
That always feels good and warm
on a morning when the snow is squeaky cold. 

We'd better hurry, 
we're due at Allan and Vivian's house for Christmas dinner. 

Funny, I can't seem to find my hightops, 
or the flannel shirt, 
or even my sheepskin mittens and earmuffs. 
Grandma probably put them away somewhere. 
I'll ask her. 
No, that's right, I can't ask her. 
She's not here. 
She's been gone an awfully long time. 
Sometimes, especially on Christmas, 
I forget that stuff. 

I wonder what ever happened to those old winter clothes of mine. 
Seems like I had 'em just the other day. 
Or was it 20 years ago? 

Got to go now, we're late for dinner. 
Don't forget to turn off the tree lights 
and the air conditioner before we leave. 
And, oh yes, the stereo Christmas tape. 

As I step out the door, 
Christmas presents under each arm, 
the white glare makes my eyes water. 
It could be snow. It really could! 

But I feel the coral rock under my feet 
as I step down from our motor home 
and I hear the waves slapping against the shore 
a few feet to my left. 

I wonder if they're having snow up home. 

Copyright  by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by permission.

 

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