Imagine

There is a tight grip of emotion not unlike loneliness that embraces me upon this night. Snow is falling in a soft rhythm that mimics the pattern of life that I feel so apart from. I am outside, and I am alone.

Yesterday, I had two friends. We played together for several hours. I wanted that moment to never end. I was a part of something. Maybe it is nothing more than mere inclusion that I desire. Sadly, for me, even that is too much to ask for. I am lucky for those few hours of enjoyment I was able to glean from a world that asks little from me and gives even less in return.

Tomorrow is Christmas Day. I have no gifts to give and expect no gifts to be given to me. It is the way of life, perverted understanding of that as it may be, that I possess.

Time goes by slowly. The silence of the pristine street lengthens my perception of the passing hours. The snow, a cheery reminder for some, mocks me as it floats by on delicate parachutes of air and ice. The chill does not bother me, but it also does not improve anything. It just settles in, seeping into my body and solidifying upon the frosty glass of car windows.

A door opens up suddenly down the street. A girl comes out. She looks familiar, but then again I am in serious doubt over the reliability of any of my basic brain functions. Recognition seems like a higher brain capability. If anything, it seems like a skill dependent upon the existence of an actual brain.

She is running down the street. The door of her house remains ajar, and I can see the dark silhouette of a worried parent contrasted sharply against the warm yellow glow of the inside. I imagine I can smell freshly baked pumpkin pie, crisp fir leaves, and the smoky scent of a crackling fire wafting out the door and down the street.

This is an illusion, of course. I am much too far away. All I can smell is the damp concrete at my feet. I close my eyes, or at least pretend that my eyes are capable of such feats, and contemplate better times and happier evenings that exist only in the details of my fabricated memories. There is not much to accompany one on these bare nights. A soft promise of a less lonely existence helps to dull the pain.

I have forgotten about the girl in the midst of the dreary passageways of my depressed consciousness. She stops now, panting, her breath puffing out in abrupt clouds of pale moonlight. She is in front of me.

“Hello, Mister Frosty,” she says, rather cordially.

I stand uncomfortably, not sure what is expected of me. In my mind, I am talking to her, holding her hand, dancing down the street with her. In reality, I am a dumb monolith of packed and frozen water.

“I came to give you something.”

The words are spoken by the girl in a respectful tone that I have never heard directed at me before. Before I realize what is happening, a red and green scarf has materialized in the girls’ hands. She reaches around me, her puffy jacket nudging particles of my rotund body off in chunks. I do not notice it. Something much more important is happening.

I feel what is happening before I can see it. The gentle weight of the scarf rests lovingly upon my rounded shoulders. The girl ties the scarf in a fancy knot reserved for others greater than myself. I am beaming with pride, and not just because my coals have been set that way.

The girl fiddles with  my scarf a few seconds more before stepping back to admire her handiwork.

She leans towards me, as if to whisper something of secretive and special importance.

“Merry Christmas, Frosty.”

She has already scampered back down the street and into the welcoming embrace of home and family before I can fully regain control of my senses.

The next few hours swim by in a hazy mixture of happiness and blissful acceptance. I can not, limited capabilities that I have, understand what has happened. Maybe nothing, maybe something so small it is imperceptible to one such as myself. Nevertheless, it does not matter. The blight of grief and sadness that lay upon my shoulders has been lifted, my soul, whatever of it may exist, now safeguarded by a cozy scarf of green and red.

When the sun rises, I greet it. As the day floats on, if I lean and squint, I can just make out the excited figures racing to and fro within the cheery window scenes of Christmas morning merriment.

I am alone, but not forgotten.

A brisk chill picks up by late afternoon. I imagine myself, fingers of flesh rather than discarded twigs, tightening my scarf against the wintry wind and reaching out my hand to that of a young girl. We dance into the distance and never look back.





Word Count: 849