A broken champagne flute, a holiday tradition it seemed, was stuffed, defeated, in the corner. The small home still smelled of roasted turkey – and was splattered with the wreckage of the party with friends he’d hosted the night before. Someone was playing something or rather by Saint-Saëns on the radio as he wandered around in his pajamas gently started putting things back in their normal, comfortable places.
The bell tolled down in the village, it meant that morning services were letting out. The kettle on the stove whistle an answer back. The only savior he was seeking this Christmas morning was a hot cup of fresh coffee. As the water dripped through the cone, he peered down over the valley.
At first, when he’d moved up on the hill, he felt like Grinch – constantly griping about goings on in Whoville. But now when the wind would carry random sounds up into his window he would create stories – about why a car chose to play their music so loud the bass bounced off his kitchen plates or the roar of the crowds as touchdowns were scored at the high school football field on a fall evening. The distance made it all seem safer.