I Am Not Hamlet

(This one is my favorite, so far) The Third Day . . . Don’t strange things happen in threes? Work routine almost reestablished until the order comes in to ride to Bethlehem, swords at the ready. What will I use that Lowe’s gift certificate for? Bust down the doors, yelling Merry Christmas—we live and die for tyrants—let’s hear it for the boys as we gut them, slash and smash them. Oops, did we just kill your daughter, Ma’am? Later, much later, the reports claimed 14,000 dead tonight (the Syrians said 60,000) but I think the number was closer to 20 dead Jew baby boys. And the least I can do is to unplug the tree lights and skip dessert for these, lully lullay, who died in thy stead. A baby boy now on his way to the land of dusty pharaohs.

I started this series about two years ago and added more last year. Maybe this year I'll finish it. Blessings to you, my two or three readers. On the first day of Christmas. . . The presents have all been opened, paper sheddings cover the floor. I’m still stuffed from last night’s turkey—now what? From the day after Thanksgiving until Christmas Eve ooey-gooey songs, presents, food and frenzy are all concentrated on every observant American who tries desperately to manufacture the long-gone feelings of a long-gone childhood. Empty boxes—empty hearts. Fill them with the rocks that stoned Stephen or unpack my heart and give something to someone who doesn’t have much now that they’re forgotten once more since Christmas has passed.