The Street

Christmas came early that year but the street didn’t mind, stretching out joyous arms in welcome. It began in October when shops shrugged off their orange clothes for Remembrance Red. The street approved. It liked its small-town displays of poppies.

November brought frost and incipient hope. The shops were lit with tinsel and coloured lights. The street liked to watch people walk around in thick coats buying gifts and lattes. The light in their eyes brought warmth and energy that lingered like a hug. Of course no one ever noticed the street itself. It was just there doing its thing – lying down between the shops and restaurants. Unobtrusive. There was no longing these days.

In December, the mood changed. Hard rain fell out of the sky, and wind brought havoc to the street. Lights were torn down and flooding caused the tarmac to split and cave, making the potholes even worse. People rushed around with cross words and tired faces dragging shopping or children. The street closed its eyes and tried not to think, Here we go, here we go again.

Then the rain stopped and a child sat down without warning. Its mother was bemoaning the state of the street to a friend.

‘It’s too much,’ she said, ‘As if there isn’t enough to cope with, at Christmas,’

The child was wearing a snowsuit and a sad face. It stroked the edge of the pavement with padded hands. There was a rush of longing. The street held its breath.

The child leaned down and pressed a fat hand into a pothole at the side of the road.

‘Poor street, nice street,’ it whispered. And then, before its mother hauled it up by one arm, ‘We love you, Street…’

Later when darkness fell, and the street fell silent, the child’s words lay thick and warm in the night air.

For if anyone can bring joy, it’s a child.

And this, is Christmas.

Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this, you might enjoy my book of (longer) short stories, Winter Lights. CURRENTLY 99P for one week as an e-book download!