Harris Langford hated Christmas. Last year on this “holiest of days,” he received the glorious gift of the streets as his new home. On this anniversary, it was hard for him not to tear down the lights strung in the trees or stomp on the props set up before the shops or in the town square.
The light flurry of snow glowed red and green from the ornate lights, but the flakes melted upon contact with the surface or the many pedestrians; some spoke on their phones to distant relatives and friends—many were couples with interlaced fingers or arms wrapped around each other's shoulders or waists; well-rounded men garbed in red coats with white fur trims rang bells and wished the passersby the merriest Christmas yet. It was an atmosphere that Harris used to absorb at his window with a cup of coffee warming his hand. Now, however, he felt as though the city had thrown a grand party and couldn't be bothered to have sent him an invitation.
He hid his face to prevent himself from scowling at the denizens and visitors to the city and remembered what it was like to warm his bones before a hearth. He certainly felt nostalgic at the memory, but it didn't warm him the way he hoped the remembrance would. Mind over matter, huh? If that were even remotely true, I'd be relaxing in a mansion right now.
He felt something lay across his chest, and he thought it was another police officer telling him that he couldn't loiter here. But when he lifted his head to confront the officer, he found a little girl of no more than three instead. She was dressed head to toe in pink winter wear themed after a character from a movie: hat, sweater, scarf, gloves, and boots. The girl looked ready to ascend the Himalayas. The sole missing article of clothing was a jacket, but that item was laying across Harris's chest.
He freed a dirty hand from his cocoon of blankets to return the jacket, but as he lifted it off his chest, the little girl sprang forward and pushed it back. “Nooo! You need it!”
Harris's eyes found the girl's smiling mother nearby. It startled him that she allowed her daughter's behavior, as though it were nothing more than petting a puppy or a kitten instead of surrendering her jacket to a perfect stranger. He was too used to pedestrians treating him like he were a statue that wedged a detour into their paths or hastening their pace the couple of meters they were near.
“You keep it, mister,” the child said. “You're cold.”
Harris did all he could to dam his eyes, and he wiped at them with his ragged sleeve. He placed his hand on the girl's shoulder and said to her, “Thank you.”
She smiled the most genuine smile he had seen in too long and said, “Merry Christmas, mister.”
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