The old man was frail and clung to his overcoat as if it were
a life vest, while the winter wind slapped at his face, begging him to give up. With shoes worn years beyond their
usefulness, he made his way to 7th Street, every step hurt as snow
flurries stung, like they were made of tiny stones.
No longer able to support him, his legs buckled, and he fell
against the harsh, impersonal building, sliding down into a crumple of
age. Using all the might he could
gather, he dragged himself into the doorway and out of the wind.
With great effort he drew his knees up to his chest and
tugged his heavy coat around himself. He
knew better than to fall asleep, but this was just another fight he was about
to lose.
Trying to force his thoughts to someplace warm was difficult
with the sound of the wind just inches away. Maybe the thought of a hot bowl of
soup would help. With his eyes closed,
he tried but his concentration was quickly broken. Something was touching his cheek. Had someone come to rob him? Were they checking to see if he was alive?
No, this was not someone’s hand. He could feel a warm breath on his face. Hesitantly he opened his eyes and there
staring directly back at him was the face of a dog. A slobbery tongue shot out and licked the old
man’s face, followed by a loud bark, and then another.
Whether or not you believe in Christmas miracles, this was how
Rusty found the Kirkman children a new grandfather. Their 7th Street apartment, after
that day, came alive with laughter and spirit and was filled with amazing
stories, some the children still aren’t sure they believe.
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