The dream was that I got what I wanted, but so did everyone else in town. “So that was the dream? You were looking through the window like Tiny Tim?” “It’s just not the kind of thing you buy for yourself.” “I guess no one else wants it,” Scarlet said. “I go and visit it at the pawnshop every year, in fact.” “Something I’ve always wanted for Christmas,” Scarlet explained, walking over to the Christmas tree. “That Saint Nicholas soon would be here?” he said, and grunted, still half asleep himself. “I just had the craziest dream,” Scarlet said groggily. Scarlet and Damen had nodded off in front of the fireplace at the Kensington house, waiting for the clock to strike midnight on Christmas Eve. Christmas is a time when we exchange tokens of love, but the only gift that lasts forever, that truly makes our spirits eternally bright, is the one that comes without the need for wrapping: love itself. Shredded paper, ribbons, boxes, and bows, delicate keepers of yearlong secrets, litter our floors and carpets, discarded like yesterday’s newspapers-collateral damage from the explosion of yuletide joy. Gifts opened, leftovers eaten, and return receipts organized. Few things are more depressing than the aftermath of Christmas.
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