The Book

Almost forgotten, it spends nearly every waking moment in that same, fixed and never-changing place in the world.
Nearly.
For when the time is finally right, it stirs
To do a job
To fulfil its purpose
To finally release its spirit to the few who are waiting for it
It is the only one of its kind
Not because of its glossed cover
A mere trace of what lies within its eternal heart
Nor because of the illustrations
Colours that dance across large and thick pages
No
What makes it special, one of its kind, and alone, is what it achieves.
It lights the hearts of the four who wait for it to fly them away when that right time finally arrives, after the ice came, or left.
I hear them now…
The soft, snow white words emblazoned across its cover, spoken in my father’s voice.
“‘Twas the night before Christmas…”