…

Whitaker looked out from his bedroom window over the orchard he had inherited from his father- who had joined my company earlier that year. The hill below the farmhouse was picked scarce of evergreens by Christmas customers. Eventually his hill met the famous pond. There, Whitaker remembered sledding past the neglected, overgrown conifers as a boy. Beyond that was the church, where he was able to distinguish various neighbors and their families caroling in the night. Finally, Whitaker withdrew his gaze back up the hill, over the land barren of snow, and sighed to himself.

“What this town will pay for with a dozen green Christmases better be marvelous,” he bitingly grumbled, before stoking the fireplace and retiring to his lonely bed. By the flickering light of the hearth that lapped over his slippers on the floor, Whitaker longed for a Christmas snowfall when he woke the next morning.

Whitaker did wake, but unfortunately, prematurely. It was dark and the hearth, now reduced to an untidy collection of embers, was still the only glow in the room. Whitaker revealed his face from a quilt, and tried to overcome his confusion as to why he had been robbed of rest. Before even seeking the time from the clock on the mantel, he detected something vaguely familiar outside. Whitaker stared in disbelief for a moment as if he could not trust his eyes. Overwhelming elation flung him out from the covers on the bed and pressed his face to the window pane.

Whitaker marveled through the glass window at what he saw down below. He donned his slippers and then hastily threw an old scarf and coat over his pyjamas. Soon enough he was out the door and into the night, as if the wonder before him would vanish if he wasted another moment. The night’s chill breeze took Whitaker’s place inside through the entrance left ajar.

Merely three steps from the house was enough to bring the man to his knees as he sank into complete awe. Whitaker was an intruder in a perfect world, hidden from the neighbors in their sleep. Yet there he sat, letting the nimble wind sting the skin of his cheeks. Whitaker raised the snow to his face, and watched it change to a small puddle in his palms. He was reminded of how man’s touch deforms this kind of beauty.

Despite its cold nature, the accumulation on the earth’s floor was like a gentle hug from his childhood. Before now, his imagination had run wild with this moment, ill-informed by memories that were distorted through age.

From down the lane, I watched a man under the night’s sky remember the snow, and acquaint himself with December’s blessing.

…

Now confident, but still pushed by curiosity, Whitaker continued to his feet. Bouncing in spirits, he rediscovered the white land, as it reflected the star’s light. The jovial man moved around his property, through the ankle-high snow, with considerable speed and forgot he was alone in the winter night.

Whitaker said to no one but the trees, “A winter’s night still unmet, a surprise to neighbor’s morning eyes, calls for my early travels,” as his interest shifted to a world beyond the farm. He stumbled down the hill, further into the dark, and caught his balance after every jaunty step.

Before reaching the flat ground, Whitaker found a decrepit sled, half buried by snow and

seemingly forgotten. Having no identifiable owner, Whitaker did not see a fault in using the sled just to finish the remaining descent. As the wooden vehicle carried Whitaker speedily past the evergreens and over the land, he again felt the comfort of his simple childhood.

Whitaker’s sleigh ride concluded where the hill leveled off: the very edge of his farm’s domain. For a moment he calmly rested on the sled, but when he finally came to his feet he was deluged by fear. Confused, Whitaker searched the night for a landmark he could recognize, but had little success; as not even the farmhouse atop the hill could be seen. The wind gave a sudden howl that bent the trees and chilled Whitaker’s bones, as if to tease his coat’s integrity. The old sled left him in a land where familiarity was substituted by December’s blessing.

Whitaker tread down a path offered by the void of trees, that seemed specifically meant for him. As he cautiously proceeded, Whitaker watched snow sprinkle from the branches overhead and caught seldom glimpses of the full moon. The beaming stars were obscured too by the ceiling of trees. On several occasions, a lofty limb would discharge a clump of snow, that would fall to the ground like a drop of water. Each slow step broke the snow’s unblemished surface.

After a while of wandering, Whitaker was relieved to discover where the forest cleared for the frozen pond. Disoriented and utterly lost, he scanned the horizon for a homebound path. Then, the wind gave another howl, as if to abhor his intentions. Now discouraged, the man loitered closer to the frozen pond’s edge, where he tested the surface with weight of one foot. The ice answered by casting a splintering crack across the entire pond. Whitaker retreated, and then lifted his gaze to where he suddenly noticed another path through the trees- one he must’ve overlooked before. The shivering man decided to follow this trail as it might return him home, back to his friendly hearth.

Plunging into the woods again, the night grew sinister. The shadows that danced among the trees laughed as Whitaker passed. The frigid wind harassed his back and nudged his pace. The man’s bones rattled under his coat and his jaw shook from the cold. Starlight was unwelcome by the overhead canopy, and the sight of the moon became more than rare. Spirits dashed between the trees and tricked Whitaker’s eyes with images of distant bodies.

With a deafening crack, a hanging branch above gave to the weight of the snow and fell just behind Whitaker, who then let out a cry and spun to the floor.

Made a fool of by a fallen tree limb, Whitaker sat in the snow and failed to compose himself. He rose again to his feet and didn’t hesitate to run from the taunting woods.

I watched the man abandon the forest and secede from the night. Without a single look back, I watched Whitaker escape my reach and forsake December’s blessing, as he re-entered the safety of his home.

…

When the sun shone over the town, Whitaker climbed out of bed and saw his grassy yard from the window. The green outside reassured him that the previous night’s events were nothing but a Christmas nightmare. As part of his routine, Whitaker continued downstairs and fixed a breakfast for one.

Christmas morning that year resembled any one of the last eleven; there was frost for the window panes, but the ground was barren for snow. As tradition, the disappointed neighbors ached for a snowfall, but Whitaker was the only habitant of Warren Pond who grew accustomed to the future winters without snow.

In the bedroom, the morning fire expended its fuel. Whitaker’s slippers were dropped the night before in their usual spot, on the brick hearth. There they laid on the floor, soaked at the toes, in a self-made puddle.