Christmas Wish

Te Ao Hou, June 1975, Page 26

Christmas Wish This old man carries the kind of bag my grandfather used to carry. And he wears the same kind of braces too. He purchases a pound of cake rich with Christmas fruits and watches as the salesgirl weighs it, then he unclasps his worn leather bag and opens it wide. I half expect to see inside a fluffy kitten, plump and sticky figs, or the imported chocolate bars Grandad used to bring. Peace offerings, they were, gifted to cover his whiskey breath. Nan would welcome him dutifully, and set his waiting meal before him but maintain a distant silence as he produced his gifts with a proud flourish, like some tipsy magician reaching deep into the recesses of his bag. I loved him then, I loved his old leather bag and his own brown leathery skin, I even loved the forbidden smell of his rebellious whiskey breath. And so I watched this stranger man carefully place his pound of Christmas cake into his worn and old-fashioned bag. I dearly hope he has someone who loves him, —perhaps a bright-eyed grandchild to share it with some Christmas morn.