Ed Speidel

Light Snow on Christmas Eve

James shifted the reigns into his left hand and reached back absently into the darkness that hung over his wagon. In the years since his accident with the timber pile, his right shoulder always seemed to cramp up during long rides, and this trip had been especially rough; he had set out before first light, and it was now well past sunset as he negotiated the forest road home. Tomorrow was Christmas day and he had promised Marie, his wife, that she wouldn’t be alone in the morning. A smile crept to his lips. James hoped she was already in bed, but he knew she was probably asleep in the cushioned chair facing the door. He had her angelic features to look forward to, and it made the miles easier.