Literature for the Aged

Literature for the Aged

The written word: immortal, ephemeral.

Thursday, December 24, 2015

A Christmas Moment

He was born. With a gasp he remembered his previous life. For once it hadn't ended so badly, he hadn't died violently or alone. Oh! Now he remembered all the times he had lived. He was doomed to live all lives because, one day, when he had lived them all, he would understand—become, you know, god.
He wondered where he was. This must be Mother, and her warm breast, which she offered him.
“And Father, he's quite a bit older than the last guy. And who are the three coots offering gifts?
That looks like a donkey! In my bedroom! My folks have shacked up in a manger! Where the hell am I?” He looked around desperately for escape.
Then he yawned. With every sip of Mother's milk the baby's thoughts became a little more cloudy. He forgot the shopkeeper's life he'd lived in Memphis, the cobbler in Macedon, the farmer in Gaul, the dancing girl in Rome. He forgot them all as he started his new life, in a manger, in Bethlehem.

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