Covid Christmas

 That damned bug! No respect for the holiday - a holy day, at that! Despite vaccines, masks, zinc, and thousands of milligrams of Vitamin C, the virus crippled me. Now, the couch cradled me, tissues tucked to my bosom like a swaddled baby. 

     My grown children and friends had promised to bring the glazed meats, the casseroles, the pies; beribboned gifts - my portion, to be left on my porch.  But who expected Winter Storm Diablo to terrorize the power grid, trap our valley under ten inches of Baby, It’s Cold Outside? Who wants to be so alone on Christmas?

     Suddenly, the London Symphony Caroles Fest stopped… at Silent Night. The furnace ground to a grunt. My phone, sucking at the charger, chimed a sad au revoir. The electric window candles snuffed and the tree twinkles sputtered their last.

     The straight tower of steam from my chamomile tea flagged, drifting limply side to side as the drafty house rebelled against the cut-off forced air. Another gagging cough, another swig of Robitussin. My heavy head swirled. The couch cooled.

     “Warmth,” I mumbled. The house grew dim. “Candle, flashlight,” my brain ordered. Fully waking, my body demanded the next round of pain meds, antibiotics, herbals. My nose was already stinging with cold. Sneezes, tearing eyes returned with a vengeance. 

     Rising, hastily wrapping the thick quilt over my head, the blanket corner crashed into my small ceramic creche. Joseph flung his staff, Mary gave up her reaching, adoring hand, the cattle lost horns; the donkey, her tail.  The shepherd boy was cut off at his knees and the Christ Child flew from His manger of hay.

     On the floor, in a heap, I wept. Early evening offered dying daylight, but I could see Him lying there, alone. I crawled to Him, retrieved the baby Jesus in my palm. Delirious or not, I suddenly knew the holy in holiday.