Thankful

He had taken the long way 'round, dragging the wagon behind him (clattering loudly on the cobbled streets). House after house, he thanked them for all of their neighborly kindnesses and gave them a bit of something for their feast (a sack of potatoes, a wrapped pudding, a measure of sugar and lemon, milk for tea, fresh oranges, a bundle of firewood, and a bit of meat if they were poorly and could not manage such a thing themselves). They gushed at him, but he waved them off as soon as he could tip his hat and go. At the end of it, he returned to his rooms and fasted. In no way did he believe he could atone for his selfishness and miserly ways in this life, nor explain himself fully for any of it in the next. The spirits would come again - this year and every year hence, perhaps, and he wondered if it would be just as terrifying every time. But he had bright fire burning in the hearth, a bit of whisky in his mug (as a bedtime medicinal), and a thick wool blanket with which to wrap his cold bones. "I AM grateful," Scrooge whispered to anyone or anything that could be listening (and counting down to Christmas Eve), "for an awareness of myself, which is painful and hopeful both; I am thankful on this fine evening, to know that I can make a go of things in the right way - that I can change and surely will."