Author note: Here is my attempt at being soft and caring, though I must say, this is a very tough write for me emotionally. Emotional, not because of content or abuse, but because of dealing with the loss of someone I love and who loved me. So with many tears, here is the best I could do. This was originally suppose to be done in one post, but I haven't even gotten past the first major plot point and i'm already over 5000 words, so I decided to post this in more digestible chunks. Also, by posting now, it gives me incentive not to abandon the project.

New York, during the winter, is a cold, hard place, and that doesn’t even take in account the weather. As it is during most of the year, people are too busy, too wrapped up in themselves to extend themselves to worry about others. There are no greetings, no smiles, just the sheer determination to get that people have to get where they are going, do what they have got to do, and to get back to where they belong with as minimal human contact as possible. Some say that is the charm of the big city, and others say it is its detriment. But in New York, almost every year, something happens about the week after Thanksgiving as the anticipation of celebrating the saviors birthday melts the rock hard piece of ice that serves as people’s hearts. It is a time where strangers wish each other happy holidays and wish others well without having to fear a litany of curse words hurled out them. In the cold, hard, city that is New York, there is something magical about this time of year. There is doubt that anyone could pinpoint exactly why. Perhaps it is the huge tree in Rockefeller center, or the lights that hang over the major avenues, or the fact that the song Silver Bells is playing and for a brief season cynicism is put aside and for a moment it is replaced by true hope that there is goodness in the world. It is the one time of year where the notions of miracles aren’t only deemed possible, but also expected. This is the story of one such miracle.

The year was 1982 and I was a seven year old boy. It was Christmas Eve and like most seven year old boys, I was on my best behavior. As had become tradition, me and my dear Aunt Rosalie were at her gay friend Paul’s house. I don’t know why we always referred to him as my aunt’s gay friend, but that’s what we did. When I say we, that would include me and others, not my aunt, she would just refer to him as Paul. Looking back at it, Paul was a very good friend to my aunt, and very good to me, though I probably didn’t realize it at the time. But that is where we were and I guess it is as good as any place to tell this story.

At Paul’s house, it was a celebration. There were a lot of people. I probably couldn’t remember them all. There was Paul and his live in boyfriend Jeff. I was a bit young at the time to realize that they were boyfriends, but I liked Jeff. Jeff was an artist and on that night, as I was wearing a stuffy suit, he taught me how to draw Fred Flintstone. I can still remember the lesson; it all started out with making the number 5 and then going on from there. Outside of Jeff, there were people who worked at Wyckoff Heights Hospital. People would come for their evening dinner breaks because the hospital was but two blocks away. Needless to say, people were coming and going all through the evening. I played the role of obedient nephew, but I really didn’t know any other way. I would greet everyone as they came in and say hello, when they would leave I would say goodbye and wish them a Merry Christmas.

It was about 8:30 when this story really begins.

“Keith,” my Aunt called out from the kitchen in the four room railroad apartment as I tried yet another attempt at drawing Fred Flintstone, but somehow kept messing it up.

“Yes, Aunt Roe,” I called from two rooms away as I knelt on the floor and used a day bed as a desk. Though I was normally polite, I was even more so on this night, because I really didn’t want coal or socks for Christmas.

“Get your coat on, it’s time to go home,” my aunt instructed.

“One second,” I said; which my common response when asked to do something was. It wasn’t that I was putting off her command; it was just what I was in the habit of saying.

“We got to go now,” my Aunt said a little bit more sternly, but not at all in a nasty tone. She knew how little boys could linger when they were wrapped up in their own things. “The snow is going to pick up and we don’t want to get stuck in it.”

“Coming,” I answered, a little shorter than I wanted to sound. I neatly closed the drawing tablet that Jeff had let me use and placed it on a white bookcase in the corner of the room. I got my thick, green parker and started to put it on. At that age, I thought the jacket a bit much, thinking it was more designed for someone going on an arctic exploration than for a kid who just wanted to have fun in the snow. It was so thick; I could barely throw a decent snowball and forget about if I wanted to get out of the way of a snowball thrown at me.

My aunt was at the front door waiting with her gay friend Paul. I don’t know exactly what they were talking about, but by the way Paul looked down at me I could guess that I was the subject.

“Children should be seen and not heard,” Paul said while looking at me. He always said that and I never understood why. Maybe there was something generational. That wasn’t’ the first time he said that to me, and I knew it wouldn’t be the last.

“But how would you know I was coming, Paul?” I countered.

Paul is his semi-flamboyant way, rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to my aunt. “Spare the rod and spoil the child,” he told my aunt.

“That’s right,” I piped up, “spoil me.” See, at seven years old I didn’t know that Paul was speaking a proverb and I didn’t know the proverb was condoning corporal punishment. I thought he was telling my aunt to spoil me and I was all for that.

“Okay,” my aunt said with a little amusement in her voice. “Let’s go before it starts getting nasty out there. What do you say, Keith?”

I knew my cue. “Thank you for having us over and Merry Christmas.”

My Aunt gave a slight frown, but I didn’t understand why. “We’ll see you tomorrow morning, but it’s getting late and it’s time to get ready for S-A-N-T-A.”

I don’t know why my aunt spelled the word Santa, I knew how to spell it so it wasn’t a secret and I was getting to the age where I didn’t know whether I still believed in him or not. But at hearing his name spelled, my face lit up and I know I was one good nap away from presents.

“Bye-bye,” Paul said and then gave my aunt a kiss on the cheek. “You be safe getting home and Keith, you make sure you help your aunt get home, don’t let her slip on the ice.”

“I will Paul,” I answered and then me and my aunt walked down the long dark hallway and towards the front door of the building.

My aunt and I didn’t say a word as we opened the front door leading out of the apartment. The cold air immediately hit us and snow swirled about as light flurries fell silently to the ground. 1711 Stanhope St. in Ridgewood New York only had 3 steps on the stoop before getting to the ground level, and I helped my Aunt down each one. Her footing was never sure in the winter.

I told you the address of Paul’s house only to let you know the distance we would travel. My Aunt and I lived at 1816 Himrod Street. That was one street up, one street to the right, and then part of a street up again. Not a long trek at all, but with an Aunt who was afraid of walking on the ice, it was going to take longer than a seven year old boy who was in a rush to get to sleep so he could wake up to Christmas presents could bear.

We took a few shuffling feet up the street in silence. I held tightly on to my Aunt’s arm, this way if she needed me for balance, I would be there.

“Keith,” she said through her scarf.

“Yes, Aunt Roe,” I answered without looking at her as my eyes scanned for possible ice slicks that needed to be avoided.

“Why can’t you call him Uncle Paul like I have asked you too?”

That was a good question, and I really didn’t have a good answer for it. I didn’t not call him Uncle out of spite. I think I kept on calling him Paul because that was how he was introduced to me and it got stored in my head that way. “I don’t know,” I answered honestly.

“I wish you would, he would really appreciate it.”

“I’ll try to remember,” I said, but knew that as soon as I watched another cloud of breath head of to Heaven that I would already forget about it.

It took us almost a half an hour to make what was really only a two block trip, but I didn’t mind; every minute wasted now was just one more minute closer to Christmas morning and presents. I was not yet at the age where I was making Christmas list, I was just happy knowing I was going to be getting toys.

We made it to good old 1816 Himrod Street, a little colder than we wanted, but knowing that our little apartment would be warm enough. My Aunt fumbled for her keys, which I never understood because they sat on a key chain that had a big, pink, hand sized heart that we had gotten at Six Flags last summer. But my aunt finally opened the front door to the apartment and we made it inside in time to thaw.

Though I was unsure if I still believed in Santa Claus, I certainly wasn’t about to take any chances. As soon as we got in the apartment, I discarded my coat and hung it neatly over one of the kitchen chairs and then made my way to my bedroom. I probably should note here that my Aunt was a wonderful person and gave me the master bedroom because she knew young boys needed room to play. I wasn’t thinking of that as I sat on my bed and pulled off my dress shoes, without untying them, and my black dress socks. I rubbed my feet to get them a little warm before I removed my pair of black slacks and my white dress shirt. I found my blue pajama bottoms still sitting on the chair to my desk and the white long sleeve top with blue sleeves right underneath. The pajamas displayed a big picture of a football dead center on the chest even though I never showed any interest in the sport. All football ever did was get in the way of me watching Punky Brewster.

I got changed in record time, in fact I was changed so fast that my aunt barely had a chance to take off her own coat and boots and sit down in her big easy chair. Though I was ready to go to bed, I would never dream not giving my aunt a kiss and wishing her good night.

I walked into the living room. My aunt had already turned on the tree and I took a moment to gaze at it. The blinking lights of multiple colors danced around the tree and was mesmerizing to me as a young child. On the divider that separated the living room from the kitchen sat a little plastic tree that had bells that would light up red as they played a Christmas carols. On the TV on the other side of the room sat two snowmen, actually it was a snowman and a snowwoman; though they were Styrofoam, they were part of our Christmas tradition.

I was standing in the doorway, to the side of the television, taking in the scene one last time, perhaps I wanted to remember it for when I drifted off to sleep so I could dream of Christmas. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the most important part of that Christmas was sitting in her oversized easy chair in her blue dress and her feet up. My aunt was reclining, but didn’t look as if she was preparing to relax, she looked like she had something to do but was waiting for the right time to do it. In that chair though sat the greatest Christmas ornament ever. Because Christmas was about love and no one has ever shown me love like she did. But she didn’t just show me love in and around December twenty-fifth, but every day of my life.

My aunt looked at me and gave a wry smile. “That was quick,” she said in that light voice that spoke that she was amused.

Though my cheeks were already reddened by the cold, I’m almost sure that my aunt could tell that I was blushing. She caught me red handed, or red cheeked in this case. One thing that our family tradition said was that if Santa showed up and you were awake he would skip your house and you would get nothing for Christmas. “Just in case he starts early,” I told my aunt with a small crinkling smile.

“It’s not your bedtime for another twenty minutes,” my aunt informed.

“I know, but just to be on the safe side.” I leaned in and gave my Aunt a kiss on her cheek. “Good night.”

“Good night, Keith,” my Aunt said as she brushed my hair back from my forehead and gave me a kiss right between my eyes.

I stood up and began to retreat from the room.

“Aren’t you forgetting something,” my Aunt asked cryptically.

I turned to face her, a blank expression on my face. I said goodnight, I gave her a kiss, I was in my pajamas, what could it be? “Am I, Aunt Roe?”

“The Christmas door,” my aunt said as she motioned to the large cardboard house that had a separate door or window that opened up for each day of December leading up to the twenty fifth.

“Oh yeah,” I said sheepishly. I walked over to the large TV and made sure not to tip over any of the glass figurines that formed a winter scene out of crystal. I opened the little red door that was numbered 24, a small teddy bear with a bow was hidden behind it and made me smile. I leaned in and gave it a big whiff.

“Well?” My aunt said with a certain glee.

I smiled as big as I could, allowing my dimples to show and surely melt away any chill that my Aunt may have felt from the trek back from Paul’s house. “It’s cinnamon, Mmm.”

My aunt nodded in approval. “Have a good night’s sleep, tomorrow will be special.”

I scampered off to bed. It was a nice twin size bed, just the right size for a seven year old boy who was on the small side. I had arranged my bed where I never pulled down the covers or sheets. I just slid in from the top and in the morning slid out the same way so the bed would stay being made and I wouldn’t have to do it. I put my head on the pillow.

“Mirage,” I called out. “Come here, pizz-wizz.”

A second later my all-white cat walked into the room, God only knows where he was hiding. When I first got him he was shy and would keep to himself, but now he jumped up on the bed without hesitation and came near my chest. I rubbed him on the bridge of the nose, because that is that spot that he loves the most. After a few moments of showing my cat love, I roll over on my belly and lay my head on my folded arms. I close my eyes and feel my cat walk to the edge of the bed, where he will sleep between my legs like he always did.

As I am drifting off to sleep I can hear my aunt on the phone.

“Yes, he is already in bed,” she said. Though she didn’t mention a name, I know she is talking to her gay friend Paul.

“I guess he still believes,” she continued, “though he will tell you otherwise, I guess the proof is in the pudding.”

“I’ll wait a little while longer, this way I know he is S-L-E-E-P-I-N-G.”

“No, this is going to be a Christmas he won’t soon forget.”

With those words coming out of my aunt’s mouth and my cat snuggled by the crook of my knee, I began to fall asleep. As I drifted to sleep, I did as I always did since I could remember; I imagined that I was a little girl. I don’t remember when I started the practice, or exactly why, but I do know that the imagery helped me fall asleep faster. I was a little girl with long hair to the middle of my back and dressed in a pink cotton nighty. That was the one thought I always kept to myself, my one and only secret that nobody knew, not even my aunt. But for those few moments before I drifted off to unconsciousness, there was no boy Keith, only me and life was perfect.

Author's note: This is actually very true to life. As in everything in this opening chapter actually happened, except I don't think Punky Brewster was on the air yet. Of course, in the chapters to come i will be revising history, I thought I would start off by being 100% accurate.