A
SWISS VILLAGE CHRISTMAS
On
a Saturday before Christmas, Kris Kringle visits our village. Tall and slender in a dark red suit,
reminiscent of pictures on old European Christmas cards. He carries oranges and peppermint sticks and
lumps of coal. The children wait
quietly. Well mannered, there is no
pushing and no whining. Their last
chance to prove how good they have been.
gently
falling snow—
a
child whispers to Kris Kringle
and
holds out his hand
Holiday decorations are few. Wreaths in shop windows or colored
lights. Nothing elaborate. Snow provides the best decoration. And the moon, illuminating snow covered
fields and woods.
Christmas
Eve—
searching
the stars
in
a blue-black sky
There is a midnight Mass, and the small
wooden church is crowded. The responses
in prayer are smooth and in unison. No
laggards here. We all sing or try
to. Familiar hymns in Latin or English
become unfamiliar in French. I hum
along.
flickering
candles—
the
joy of Christmas
in
a foreign tongue
Bottle Rockets, spring 2006 #14
