Peace

They straggled in, each an award winner: Best Spouse. Best Parent. Best Sibling. Best Child. Best Friend. When the glasses arrived, Chloe convened them and raised a frosted cup in their honor, calling out their names. “And now,” she said (serving them from the wassail bowl), “whosoever desires to be free may speak the truth of their love aloud.” Peter set a light rhythmic pattern with his fingertips on the table and they cast their eyes downward (to offer privacy). “We are old now, and I’m always afraid that every holiday will be our last together.” “Most of this is habit.” “I never give up, but I probably should.” “When I say that I can feel real magic in the season, I’m pretty sure people want to punch me.” “I love them, but they're easier to love from far away.” “It’s more duty than anything else; I’m here to settle all accounts, put them in the ground, and then salt the earth to make sure they can’t crawl out at sunset to feast upon the innocent.” The table fell to silence and Chloe rallied them to eyes up with a bright smile. “Love takes many, many forms,” she reminded them. “Who are we to judge that any of it fails as part of a greater purpose?” They needed peace; she could see it in their eyes.