Sheila's Dribs 'n Drabs

I’ve set the time. Just bring one thing back, just one iota of proof. That’s all I need. I’ve set the place, just needs a little refinement. I’ve set the carrier wave to bring me home. I open the box. “Mom, where’s Daddy gone?” says Sam. Didn’t it work? “I don’t know. That’s strange.” Can’t they see? “I’m here,” I try to shout with my silent voice, plastic face all frozen and still. I’m here beside the manger with ragged robes and a box in my hand—a cross between a shepherd and a king. And there’s no going back.

Peter’s so possessive about his stuff. He’s got this box he brought home from work and no-one’s allowed to touch it. But Sam hid it in his pocket before church. He’s pulling off the ribbons now, face so intent. I lean over his shoulder—just to peak. It’s empty. Church is going overboard on incense these days. It stinks. Then I hear an animal noise, see a camel, and look up into the face of a king. What’s going on here? Choir’s still singing. I hear Peter’s voice, “I thought I told you…” and I’m beside him in church again.

Daddy said “Don’t open the box,” but it’s Christmas. Who doesn’t open stuff at Christmas-time? When Dad’s not looking I pull on the ribbon and climb inside my spaceship, rattling, shaking its way to the stars. But I don’t know why it lands me on a freezing cold hillside. Sheep bleat miserably and Christmas tree fairies sing carols out of tune. A boy tugs my arm, shouting, “Hurry! Come and see.” Then my Dad takes the box away from me. “I thought I told you…” I open my eyes to Sunday’s choir and church. But how? What’s in the box?

“Grandma never loved me,” said Jen, wiping laceworks of dust from her face as they emptied the attic. “Why d’you say that?” “I wasn’t good enough. She always said…” Jack would’ve called it Grandma’s way of caring but didn’t dare. A hidden suitcase of photos only served to prove Jen’s point. “See. She didn’t even keep my pictures on display.” Downstairs they watched a passing breeze set Grandma’s chair to rocking. Sunlight fell on a photo of Jen. “She loved you,” said Jack. “She never even framed it.” But written on the back: “My Jen, best part of my life.”

Pete didn’t want to go to the party. “I haven’t got a present,” he said, but Asher’s Mom made him come anyway, and he watched, dismayed, while Asher opened his gifts. “I love this car!” said Asher, so excited till the wheel came off. “I can fix it,” said Pete. Sticky-stuff in his pocket worked a treat. “This rocket goes fast.” The elastic broke, but Pete’s pocket contained a spare. The pictures were fun till the crayons ran out, but Pete’s pockets had more hiding there. Pete enjoyed himself, and Asher’s Mom said his were the finest gifts of all.

Sun glistens, Dripping scents of honey On whispering waves. Man’s not listening Buries his head and money In the sand. Morning scatters Bread on the evening waters Healing the land. … Sun glistened Shone in the black reflection Of the waves. Man listened Only to safe deflection Of her rage. Earth bleeding Hiding her sores underneath Till they blotted the page. … Earth like a bride sorely wounded Bleeding her lifeblood, the newly Devoted, devouring her beauty Rescuing roamers who knew she Would cry late-lamented, and blue sea Awakes from the gray. … Sun glistens Man learning to listen Life and hope remain.

The space-ship was flying too close to the black hole. Observers gathered round. Mission Control were calling, “Pull back, pull back,” but the ship didn’t turn. “What’s wrong with them?” “We’re cutting it fine,” said the First Officer. “Very fine.” “Just go with the plan.” Captain Nemo leaned over his screen; he’d never seen such glory. Science officers gawped at data, space at its rawest frontier. “Cutting it too fine maybe sir.” “Okay, we’ll turn around now.” But forever and forever and forever they’re turning still, and it’s always now. The observers sighed, “Too late,” and called for further volunteers.