Christmas to the eyes of a 21-year old girl.
The campus is officially closed. All buildings are locked, parking lots are empty, streets are bare, not a single soul. The last car leaving town just passes by the park where she has been sitting watching the street. This college town has once again stand true to its status. Holiday time means ghost town. All left are the deserted one, the uprooted, scurrying around to establish the familiar feeling everyone seems to be hunting for during this time in the year. Some succeed, some fail miserably.
It’s a cold day. The bench feels cold and damp. Earlier, the forecast gave a warning for a snow storm, a heavy one they said. It has started a few minutes ago. Big, wet drops. The kind that will make a white hexagonal stain on dark clothes. Some fall on her face, which she gladly allows it, hoping to balance the salty taste from the previous wetness. “Here we go,” she thinks to herself, “It’s my fourth one, I should know by now the routine steps.” It’s a dance after all. Has beginning, middle, and end. Yet, she seems to be stumbling on a few steps this time around.
The dance practice hasn’t gone as well as she expected. But what is she truly rehearsing for anyway? Is it to be an expert in asking the same question, “Where are you, Christmas,” year after year?