- Posted December 18, 2013 by
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A miracle on Christmas Eve - "The Christ Child" by Sir Kristian Goldmund Aumann
Sir Kristian Goldmund Aumann
The Christ Child
Step by step, he felt grueling and the city of mourning was grim before him. Unlit houses, they stuck bizarre against the cold winter sky. Fog engulfed cried the late moon a gentle tear. Eternal; she fell into silence - the darkness there – in the firmament. His tired eyes found a few wooden fruit crates, they smelled of tangerines – there, somewhere on the sidelines – where a hopelessly crowded supermarket; and, of those, from the bright lights of consumption, he prayed. The wooden fruit crates, he took them with him. They smelled of Christmas. In the moments of unshed tears, a rusty key lay heavy in his hand; and the Pre-Christmas wooden fruit crates and nothing more – when, he, entered the cold of the room. Full of longing, pale blue woman eyes had waited and asked: “Did you bring us food?” His forehead was laid in folds, as he said. “No.” “Unfortunately, no.” Repeatedly, he said. His disappointment, he, kept to himself, while in the meantime, the scent of Christmas, from the wooden fruit crates, filled the room. She stroked sighing over her own belly; the fruitive belly. “Will it come tonight, the baby?” He asked. His worried eyes roamed her shapely body. “I do not know, I do not know.” She breathed hesitantly, these fateful words, into the room. In the great silence, they echoed – the syllables of the words. In the moments of tension, his kicks of anger, they crashed into the fragrant wooden fruit crates. “I'll make a fire in the oven!” He said gruffly. Some time later the fire glowed brightly. It was a handful of light and it warmed and nourished them. Until hours of counted clock; then piercingly painful outcries, shrill, they went out into the healing night, into the Holy Christmas Night. Giving birth, her, body jerked and writhed and her eyes were in the splendor of the fever, as the cervix released the child's head. He, the expectant father, he had to help him only his own cold hands - and nothing more. With the extremely exhausting power of his mother; he, the pure sun – light of the night - came to the world; and divine sonship, he, warmed his father's hand and, peacefully, now, he lay at his mother's breast. Hours went by. His father had gone out, in the meantime. Prior to the poor house he stood. Thoughtfully, he looked toward to heaven, and his feet were like lumps of ice - motionless and rigid. A burning cigarette stuck in his mouth. Thoughts later, he formed words of white breath and cigarette smoke, liberating words and words from the bottom of the heart.
“Silent Night, Holy Night.” He said. “Silent Night, Holy Night.” He whispered.
Snowfall, full of promise, piled on the white path. Three men approached the house - step by step. They wore floor-length gowns and veils to the ears were their bearded faces. Before, they came to a halt. They said: “We have heard the screams.” He smokes and shook his head without saying a word. A cigarette pack made the rounds. So they stood; four silent flares at night, four silent flares at the Holy Night.
Minutes passed by minutes; then late at night, they, entered the room, and they saw the mother with the child. Both were asleep. The sight of the child made purely their faces; and their snowy coats, they thawed. Long they stood around the child, one hour long. Later, the bony hands of the three men disappeared in coat pockets, searching and noiseless. Necessary to life came to light. “This is for the child.” The one man said. “And that is for the mother.” The other men said. He took the gifts with a beam in his eyes. Time flew by. One then warned to leave. With looks of parting, the men crossed in front of the mother and the child. Gentleness, they lifted up their huge feet from the room. He had followed them out the door. The snowfall was lush and the wind rustled noticeably colder through the woods. Cigarettes made their hands warmer. Fuming, they were silent. Facing eyes, their coats dipped in sparkling white. At a late hour, his feet, were frozen. Far from his eyes, he saw three men on the horizon.
Silent Night, Holy Night. He said. Silent Night, Holy Night. He breathed grateful.