She waits patiently listening for hurried hooves on rooftops, bells jingling, but hears the pounding of her neglected heart in the frostiness of December’s air,
her hands purple and chapped to the bone, placed over a small fire she blows while rubbing hard to generate feeling,
through faint colors of crimson red, emerald green and glimmer gold, a rush of contentment warms her insides as she harks back to Christmas lights curved on snow-powdered bushes in front of her childhood home, a slight smile widens her burdened face,
she closes her eyes and breathes-in scents of peppermint, spice, pine and cinnamon, reminiscent of moments savored with family, her heart weeps,
fantasy soon replaced by echoes of gunshots, a dwindling fire shared in a rusted barrel as city lights fade into the infected blackness of night, the magic of the season lingers while she clenches on to hope.
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