The Boy is working tonight, far away (a plane ticket) from here, playing sacred music for someone else’s (almost) midnight church service. He’ll be home tomorrow night. I’ve been in the airport on more than one Christmas Day; such is the life of a professional musician and his mother. It can be quite festive, though, and I’ll enjoy the ride to the airport.
And the one home.
Tonight—the Christmas goodies having been baked and now cooled on the counter—I’m sitting here reading through Dickens. You know the book. It’s an unusual tack to take, when you think about it: a ghost story for Christmas:
Again the Ghost sped on, above the black and heaving sea—on, on—until, being far away, as he told Scrooge, from any shore, they lighted on a ship. They stood beside the helmsman at the wheel, the look-out in the bow, the officers who had the watch; dark, ghostly figures in their several stations; but every man among them hummed a Christmas tune, or had a Christmas thought, or spoke below his breath to his companion of some bygone Christmas Day, with homeward hopes belonging to it. And every man on board, waking or sleeping, good or bad, had had a kinder word for another on that day than on any day in the year; and had shared to some extent in its festivities; and had remembered those he cared for at a distance, and had known that they delighted to remember him.
I’m remembering those I care for at a distance tonight. God bless us, every one.
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