25 December 20XX+1
My
Dear Lucilius:
“’Sire, the night grows darker now, and the
wind grows stronger.
Fails my heart, I know not how. I can go no
longer.’
‘Mark my footsteps my good page, tread Thou in
them boldly,
Thou wilt find the Winter’s rage freeze Thy
blood less coldly.’”
Christmas
Day came this morning with nary a whisper of clouds or snow, only the
clear cold sky with fading stars and the hint of sun from the East as
we bundled up and trundled out towards The Post Office. As we got
closer, occasional bobbing lights betrayed the progress of others,
Christmas Will-O-The-Wisps’ making their way across the snow.
I
had not been into the The Post Office for some time following its
initial remodel by Young Xerxes and the team he had cobbled together
– not really since Young Xerxes’ plea some months ago. The room
itself was much changed, widened by the removal of interior items and
warmed by a wood stove which had been relocated from somewhere else –
the efforts of my wood collection now being apparent.
Most
impressive, however, were the Christmas decorations.
Somehow,
Lucilius, a Christmas tree with decorations and of all things,
lights, blazed away in one corner of the room. The room was hung
with green and red tinsel, relics of an industrialized age that
produced such things in abundance. Pictures had been applied to the
walls, pictures from Christmas decorations of long ago, even before
my time.
Along
the back wall sat a table.
Having
come in, we were of course put to work, pulling out folding chairs
that had been transferred from the court room as hot tea in cups was
thrust into our hand. Another of those irresistible
was pressed into my hands.
As
we worked away setting up chairs, more people kept coming in. And
coming. And coming.
As
they came, the back table began to fill up with, of all things, food.
Oh, not the sort of feast that one would associate with Christmas
once upon a time. There were quite a lot of jars of preserved food
there, along with bread and what appeared to be cookies. But that
was a spread that I had not seen in some days.
By
the time it was a reasonable hour of the morning, I think almost
every member of the community was there – yes, even some members of
our Erstwhile neighbors though sadly not all. Still too soon, I
suppose.
Still,
with almost 60 people there, we had more than enough.
After
a brief (very brief) prayer, breakfast started – topped by, of all
things, venison and half a boiled egg for each of us. Yes, it was
the oddest of Christmas breakfasts – my bowl filled with
sauerkraut, pickles, venison, yet another biscuit, half a boiled egg,
and a cookie – but it was a meaningful and delicious a Christmas
meal as I had observed in many year.
After
the meal ended, two to three of the folks I remembered having
instruments pulled them out. And, of course, we sang the Carols of
Christmas.
I
say “Sang”. That may be a misnomer of sorts as not everyone
could sing – at least well. And to be completely fair, some of the
verses were perhaps a little different than I might remember.
After
the songs went on for a while, Pompeia Paulina pulled me up and
handed me a Bible opened to the New Testament. And so, after many
years of reading it silently, I read the Christmas story out loud and
openly.
There
is something, Lucilius, about sharing the Christmas story verbally.
Perhaps it is tied to memories of hearing it years ago, in church on
Christmas Eve with family now long gone or reading it aloud to my own
family. That story, so simple and yet so profound, can speak to us
in every era.
Even
in an era of a Collapse.
After
I finished and sat down, one of the musicians started picking out the
notes to Silent Night. And so, we sang to the crackle of a fire
under the garish lights of a Christmas tree made truly magical by the
fact that such magic did not happen like this at all.
At
the end, there was a natural moment of silence. We all sat there in
the glow of fire and lights and sunlight through the windows.
Perhaps
not truly Peace on Earth, Lucilius, but perhaps as much as we are
likely to find in these troubled times.
“In his master’s steps he trod, where the snow lay dinted,
Heat was in the very sod which the saint had printed.
Therefore Christian men, be sure, wealth or rank possessing:
Ye that now will bless the poor, shall yourselves
find blessing.”
Your
Obedient Servant, Seneca
