By Jim Bates
The old man pulled back the curtain and peered into his front yard. It was covered with dirty snow, the stalks of forgotten annuals bent and frozen. He frowned. Should have pulled them last October. Who cared anyway? He let the curtain fall back and made his way to his worn armchair. He sank wearily into the cushion, grabbed his ever-present glass of whiskey, flipped on the television, and gazed at the flickering image of “Miracle on 34th Street.” After a while he fell asleep, thankful for the escape. His wife Abby had died that summer, and he lived alone in their home full of memories. All he wanted was to somehow make it through the holidays. Was that asking too much?
Rrrrrring! Rrrrring! The doorbell startled him awake. What the…? The house was dark except for the image on the television. He…
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