AtDTDA (7) 188/195 777 A few obs

[robinlandseadel at comcast.net]

“Put me down,” she said. “I will not be late for my son’s feast.” She looked 
back at him. “Forgive me,” she said enigmatically, her tiny self then turning 
and trudging through the snow. Small music, something about reindeers perhaps, 
drifted up to him from the parade.

He could not go on without seeing something, he thought, although he was clearly 
not invited. He crouched behind a tree and stared. He saw all the statues, but 
in their human forms, all gathered around the windblown float that came up last 
in the parade, upon it a great figure of a man, bearded with age, clothed all in 
red and white. The littlest Mother stood up next to the saint, whose large being 
graced that float. His heart was as big as the storm that had been. Around the 
figure were all his mothers, not as solid statues, but as living things: The 
Mother of Five Wounds, the Mother of Imaginary Reindeer, the Mother of Red 
Roses, the Mother of Daily Bread, the Mother of Refuge, the Mother for a Holy 
Death, the Mother of Ho Ho Ho, the Mother of Devotion, the Mother of the 
Woods, the Mother of Seven Sorrows, the Mother of Jolly, the Mother of Rest, 
the Mother of Lovers, of Purgatory, of Invention, of Giving. As Schrobberbeeck 
watched, from far away, he saw that Santa’s heart might burst like a grape the 
way he’d heard Christ’s had. He shouted out then, a shout as loud as that he’d 
shouted at cars but two short years ago.

He shouted out “Hey!” And then, “He is forgiven!”

http://austin.weblogger.com/