“Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas!” I exclaim with a ring, ring, ring of the simple, yellow bell in my red gloved hand.

“God bless you, God be with you, Merry Christmas,” I go on as people shuffle by.

Then the little girl, with the handful of pennies, apologizes for not having more to give. Her blue eyes shine so brightly in the early winter sunshine.  Her mother watches as every penny dings the walls of my red, metal bucket.

Pride.

“Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas!” I continue with a ring, ring, ring of my unmistakable, yellow bell.

People grumble past me into the store.  Most do not even make eye contact.  I watch as children are scolded, as men sigh knowing they will be tortured upon entry, as babies cry in their carriers, as old men snort—all the while I continue to ring my precious, yellow bell.

“God bless you, God be with you, Merry Christmas,” I carry on.

Then the old lady, with crumpled dollar bills in her frail hand, approaches.   Her eyes shine just as brightly as the little girl before, but with a depth that was a result of a lifetime of memories captured. As she puts the dollars in she smiles warmly at me.

“My daughter always made sure that we put something in the bucket.  She was a special child, that one.  Even when she had nothing, she would search the car, my purse, her coat for something, anything,” she conveyed with an apparent heavy heart.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I’m so sorry for your loss,” I offer as if I know the story.

A thank you escapes her wrinkled lips as she carries her old, tired body into the store.  Before she is swept into the sea of chaotic shoppers, though, she turns and smiles; her eyes bright and cheerful.

Gratitude.

“Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas one and all, young and old, happy and sad, Merry Christmas to you! Merry Christmas,” I say as I let my voice become a sing-song out into the crowd that bustles by.

I see them all.  Some cannot be bothered.  Some don’t want to hear me.  Some apologize. Some wish me a Happy Hanukkah, which I am more than alright with. Some say nothing while they stare down at the ground. Yet I continue to bless them with the ring, ring, ring of my humble, little bell.

Love.

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This piece was written as part of this week’s prompt from the awesome group of bloggers who have come together to practice the craft of writing well.  {W}rite of Passage is the brainchild of Leslie “Mrs Flinger“.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, December 8th, 2009 at 8:59 am and is filed under {W}rite of Passage. You can follow any comments to this post through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.

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