A tubular, metal bed frame, brown and paint-chipped, with a thin mattress on creaky squeaky springs. A foot-warming, red, rubber hot water bottle wrapped in a towel, tucked between fresh flannel sheets. A four-legged heater down the hall crackling and popping, stove pipes radiating varying shades of red. Single-pane windows, canvasses for Jack Frost’s ice-crystal art, unique images of delicate, interwoven ferns.
Straining to decipher sounds coming from the living room, speculating on what is being placed under the tree. Naively determined to stay awake and listen for the pitter-patter of Santa’s reindeer on our snow-covered roof, only to be spirited away by dreams of new toys, exotic oranges, roast turkey, fruit cake and Christmas pudding.
Lloyd Atkins
Vernon
