The Gift - A Short Story

Clare closed the door on her world. Light and sound and warmth was instantly shut behind that shield of heavy oak and cold glass.

Muffled words pressed insistently through the door, “Why does she always do this?” from her sister in hushed frustration, and “You know how she is,” from her mother, as if that explained it all. “Well, she’s an adult,” her sister replied. “She needs to just grow up.”

It’s all my fault, of course. She turned her back to the door and all that it retained, and faced the night. It was cold, and she had failed to grab her jacket in her haste to escape. But there was no way she was going back inside to retrieve it. Not yet, anyways.

She wrapped her arms around herself and carefully descended the icy front steps. She had to go somewhere, but she was suddenly alone in a cold world. She glanced up and down the street and arbitrarily chose to go left toward the main street of town.

Snowflakes began to fall, their soft whispering inviting the world to share in muted slumber on the ground. It was somehow comforting despite the chill.

Clare’s thoughts were inexorably drawn back to what brought her outside at that moment. The words replayed in her mind like an annoying earworm.

“Why don’t you go back to college and get your degree?”

“When are you going to find a boyfriend and get married? You’re getting older, you know.”

“The dessert you made was way too sweet! No wonder you’ve gained weight - you’re eating stuff like this all the time.”

She never could think of any responses in the heat of the moment, but now they jumped into her imagination and she reconstructed the conversations the way she would have liked them to go.

“I may go back, in time, but right now I can’t afford it and don’t want to add to my debt.”

“I’d love to, but it’s not like I can control these things. When I find someone I love that loves me back, then maybe that will happen.”

“I made this for a special occasion. It’s not like I sit at home and eat this all the time.”

But her responses even sounded weak to herself, too defensive. Her parents often had good points, but did they have to be so mean about it? It was as though their own doubts and fears were creating an indomitable mountain before her, casting a shadow across her existence.

Her hopelessness turned to anger and left her with the only action she could control. Avoiding them.

This is a great Christmas Eve, thanks a lot, Mom and Dad. She hunched her shoulders and trudged forth. She turned onto the main street where several street lamps, Christmas lights from shops, and headlights from cars invaded her private brooding in the darkness.

She looked up and noticed a man walking toward her on the sidewalk. He wore a poor-fitting jacket with both pockets torn, and a few bare toes poked through holes in his old boots. He was hunched over, walking aimlessly with his arms wrapped around him to keep out the cold.

She slowed, waiting for an opportunity to cross the street. However, oncoming cars and trucks meant there would be no opening to cross until she had already walked past him. She fixed her eyes on the sidewalk and trudged ahead, moving to the far right of the sidewalk to give him the widest berth.

Don’t look at him. Don’t make eye contact and it will be over quickly. She knew she should feel sorry for him, but at the moment she couldn’t muster compassion for someone else.

He probably brought it on himself, anyway.

Homeless people made her feel uncomfortable. She could never tell if they were crazy or not, or if they were con artists or truly in need. Avoidance was always the best policy.

As they passed by each other, Clare held her breath against the inevitable onslaught of odors from the man--a rank mixture of urine, smoke, and booze. Once out of danger, she exhaled softly, her mind already lured back to the siren’s song of past conversations yet unresolved.

“Merry Christmas!” a voice rang out, a clanging cymbal that cleaved the somber silence of the night. Clare jumped and turned around, afraid of whomever could speak with such cheer when clearly there was so much pain in the world.

A man emerged from a side door of a church she hadn’t noticed walking by a moment ago. It was an old stone building parked on the corner. The rectangle of light that beamed from the doorway revealed a line of people awaiting their meal with outstretched paper plates and eager plastic spoons.

Clare grasped for an objection, a way to deflect the man’s invitation. “I…”

The church man smiled at the homeless man, “Please, come in and warm yourself up. Grab a bite to eat. You can leave at any time--we promise not to lock the doors!” he laughed, walking toward the homeless man with an arm stretched toward the open door in invitation.

The homeless man looked around, as if he, too, assumed the man was speaking to Clare, or anyone else. Certainly not him. The church man placed a gentle hand on the homeless man’s shoulder.

Clare just stood there for a moment, watching the homeless fellow smile toothlessly and mutter his astonished thanks while letting himself be led toward the light. The church man glanced to her and caught her staring.

“Are you alright? You are welcome to join us as well.” He looked at her clothes and hesitated. “Or if you need a ride somewhere, I’m sure one of the ladies would be happy to take you home.”

Clare stood silently dumbfounded, the prepared denial expending itself in the puff of steam as she exhaled. Am I alright? Am I alright? No, I’m not alright! Everyone hates me and it’s no wonder why. What kind of person am I to judge this homeless man, when I myself have been treated that way? Those thoughts tumbled around in her mind, but found no exit. Instead, the words that she spoke came unexpectedly from her heart.

She choked back the sob that threatened to break free. “I...don’t deserve to be treated so nicely,” she whispered haltingly, as if the very act of speaking the words made it true.

But the church man just smiled, as sincerely as he had at the homeless man. His voice, too, was softer, gentler. “A gift is never deserved.”

Tears overtook her vision blurring the street lights and the Christmas lights into a gleaming haze. A gift is never deserved. Her family. The warmth of her childhood home, the gifts under the meticulously decorated tree, the banquet set out on the table, all of those things were gifts she didn’t deserve. That homeless man didn’t have any of those things--no warmth, or christmas gifts, and…no family. Or maybe he had a family that didn’t really care about him.

But I have a family. I have parents who really do care about me. They just have a different way of showing it.

Her grandfather on her Dad’s side had been an alcoholic, constantly changing jobs and trying to find the next get rich quick scheme. Her grandmother on her Mom’s side was always a gruff person, quick to criticize her mother harshly when something was not as perfect as it would have been had she done it herself.

How could her parents possibly overcome this? Was she doomed likewise to be harsh with her loved ones? She had never told them how she felt, so how would they even know? Her parents had loved her the best way they knew how.

The church man stood patiently, watching Clare as these thoughts bombarded her mind. Suddenly, she became aware that she was staring at him.

“I’m...I’m sorry. I’m going to go home now,” and she began to walk back the way she came, retracing her footsteps in the snow, mingled with that of the homeless man.

As she passed by the church man, she looked up and smiled, “Merry Christmas...and thank you.”

“Merry Christmas to you, too. Be safe.” He waved, turning to go inside, but paused at the doorway. He stood there for a moment, the light from the still-open doorway framing him as he glanced once more toward Clare before he stepped inside.

Clare headed home, strangely warm and loving the slight tickle of the snowflakes melting on her face, loving how the lights from the street lamps made each snowflake sparkle as if God himself were stringing Christmas lights as beacons for her journey home. She followed each triangle of lit snowflakes to the next, until she reached the light on her parent’s front porch, a warmer beacon set against the familiar golden oak and frosted glass backdrop.

She smiled and opened the door to her world again.

“Sorry guys, I just needed some fresh air. It’s a beautiful night out!” Her parents and sister looked at her in shock.

Things were not going to be the same in her family from now on, but they would be alright.

This story was written in submission of @gmuxx's Art Writing Prompt Contest #8. Thanks to everyone in the Writer's Block who helped me through this!

If you enjoyed this post, please follow, upvote, and resteem. I write posts on singing, playing piano, teaching music, and short stories about anything.

Photo prompt image by @sad-dad

Title image by Staropramen from Pixabay source.

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