Writing competition - A Christmas story
“Is it still okay!?” Lisa was shocked. Did she just say that out loud? Apparently that was the case, because the woman who was reaching into the frame a little way down the aisle looked at Lisa disapprovingly. Then she saw Lisa looking at the display in front of her, nodded at her in understanding, and hurried off with her purchases. Lisa turned her head back to the object of her outrage. She was standing in the supermarket to buy her lunch. Outside, children in shorts were playing ball, and dozens of boxes of Christmas baubles were stacked in the high rack in front of her. It was the sixteenth of October.
It was just before Christmas and Sophie was enjoying the first snowfall. On the way home she hopped from one foot to the other, sticking her tongue out to catch as many snowflakes as possible. When she got to the big bridge, she heard a soft clapping. Sophie stopped and looked around. She saw an old, somewhat unkempt man with long hair and a beard. He was wearing torn trousers and a coat riddled with holes.
The package lay on the back row of seats, unnoticed even though it was wrapped in shimmering gold paper . Charlotte saw it as the bus slowly emptied; there were still three stops to the one where she had to get off. The package was oblong and a large red stitch hung limply, as if it had gotten wet.
My sister-in-law sits on the corner bench, heavily pregnant. After giving the presents she lies on the sofa. Kicks move her stomach and a little foot becomes visible. Everyone is looking forward to the baby.
Later, when we're lying in bed at home, my husband says: "Let's try everything again next year, maybe we'll become parents after all..." I nod. "Yeah, maybe," I reply vaguely. And somewhere a star shines.
The icy wind blowing across the treeless plain causes the shepherds standing in front of the stable in Bethlehem to move from one foot to the other, rubbing their hands. The Christmas star shines silver above them. A heavenly ensemble of angels floats underneath. Harps strum, trombones toot, bells tinkle, the first bars of From Heaven High, I Come Here are hummed. Jehoel, as the angel of song, the choir director of the Seraphim, hits the roof of the stable with his baton. “Silentium,” he calls, “Please be quiet, Joseph is coming.”
