In the New York City square, he asked me if I was a registered Democrat. I told him I lived in Iowa, and that I was registered there.
“That’s the hub of it all,” he said. “I’m guessing it’s wild.”
“It is,” I said, as my friend continued toward Filene’s Basement. “I’ve never seen the Caucuses. It’s weird to be in the middle of things way out there.”
He nodded and held his clipboard to his chest, no longer interested in my signature.
“Attention in the terminal. Someone left a pair of glasses at the security checkpoint. They appear to be bifocals. If you cannot see, please return to the security checkpoint.”
“I’ll give you a dollar if you’ll sing along to the next song,” said the man who had just finished a slice of cheese pizza.
The radio switched to “Proud Mary,” and everyone in the joint murmured.
The girl’s smile spread across her face. “I don’t know the words,” she said, but she knew enough to prove, using her Sprite bottle as a microphone, that she was not afraid to channel Tina.
He found her rocking in the gravel at the side of the highway as the cars rubbernecked.
A man yelled, “I called 911!” from a rolled-down window. A child pressed a palm white as the center line against the glass of the minivan he rode in. On the other side of the highway, wind shuddered the trees.
“You must be in shock,” he said.
“No,” she replied. “I have all my wits about me.”
The littlest ones wander, more interested in the prayer book on the priest’s chair than in standing with other shepherds and angels. A blonde girl breaks her prayer pose to wave at her mother just before Silent Night begins.
And, by the manger, the girl kneeling as Mary avoids eye contact with the boy serving as Joseph. He stares intently at the manger, as overwhelmed, in his own way, as the man he represents.
“I know it was them,” said one woman to another as they disembarked for an afternoon of shopping in Hamilton. “I mean, sure, he had gained weight, and her hair was graying, but they still looked so happy.”
“You know,” said the other woman. “I’m certain when the waiter brought their drinks, he called her Mrs. Montague.”
“And last night? At dinner? He said something about the light coming from the kitchen and then called her the sun. The sun! Isn’t that the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard?”
The mailbox clanged shut. “There you go, honey,” the mother said. “Your letter’s on the way to Santa Claus.”
The knee-high girl tilted her head up so her face poked from her purple quilted hood. She slid a hand up the mailbox as if Santa Claus might be inside, might know that she was outside holding her wishes tight to her heart, even as they sat inside in their envelope.
Then she turned and toddled after her mother, peeking back every few steps, just in case she was missing any magic behind her.
100 Proof 