Christmas Spirit

The old lady huffed and puffed as she climbed the steep hill.

‘Keep going, Madge’, she panted. ‘Keep going. We’re nearly there’.

It was the cold that made it more difficult. Not old age. Never old age. She’d been climbing that hill for years. It was only this winter that she’d found it getting too much for her old bones. The cold, that was it. Just the cold.

And Christmas.

She’d gone into town this morning to gather a few provisions for the next few days. She usually battened down the hatches until the festive season was over.

‘Festive. That’s a laugh’, she grumbled to herself as she climbed the last few yards, heading toward her own front door. She’d given up decorating the house since … well, since there’d been no one to decorate it for. Her son was far away now, living his life. Her husband had died years back. So, it was just her. Why bother with tinsel when the sparkle had gone out of her own life?

She had to admit that the neighbours had done well this year. Lights were strewn on every available branch in every garden along the road. Christmas trees twinkled from every window, it seemed. And candles were flickering cheerfully. Against her will, she could feel her heart lighten. Bah humbug! She would not enter into the spirit of the season. No! She’d given up on believing in the Christmas miracle many years ago. Or at least she’d tried to. She’d still catch herself humming Christmas carols once December came around, and she often left the TV on a channel that had seasonal movies on a loop. Just for company, of course. Deep down, she’d always loved Christmas. It was just that, now… well, now, she was on her own.

She unlatched the gate, glad to have arrived finally at her destination. Home again. She was looking forwards to making a nice strong cup of tea and putting her feet up. She’d take a little nap once she’d put away her messages. That wouldn’t take too long: a small packet of mince pies, some potatoes, Brussels sprouts. A salmon steak. She’d not bother with turkey. It didn’t really agree with her so, this year, she’d opted for salmon. She’d fry it with a little butter, sprinkle it with parsley and that would do for her Christmas dinner. A bit of a treat, really.

She was putting her key in the front door when she heard the sound. It was just a whisper, really, but, as the evening was still, with the promise of frost in the air, every sound became magnified. It was accompanied by a rustling, a scuffling.

What could it be? The old lady hesitated. It might be a rat, or maybe just a bird looking for shelter in the bushes. She should get herself indoors before the sun set completely and the cold seeped further into her bones. But something made her stop and listen. ‘Darn these ears’, she muttered. ‘Not as sharp as they used to be’.

Another rustle and scuffle.

‘It’s coming from just over there, under the window, where the camellia grows’. A beautiful camellia with bright red flowers in early summer. Now it was just a bush of green leaves hiding something… but what?

The old lady put down her shopping carefully. Stooping didn’t come easy these days and she dreaded toppling over. Especially outside her own front door. What would the neighbours think!

She headed towards the camellia, bent down and slowly parted the foliage. There, crouched low, trembling with cold and fear, was the smallest little black kitten, almost invisible in the fading light.

Meow!

‘Well, hello, little one. How did you get there? Where’s your mommy?’

Meow! Meow!

The old lady bent even more carefully now and gently picked up the little black void, nervous in case it panicked at the unfamiliar touch. Instead, though, the kitten snuggled close to the woman’s chest and purred.

Turning to head into the house, the old lady thought with a smile:

‘So, after all, I am going to have a guest for Christmas. I wonder if there’s enough salmon for two.’

Something told her that she’d be sharing her meals with her new ‘guest’ for some time to come and the idea filled her with great joy.

Meow!