exchanged gifts.
And they smiled sadly, for both their traditions required gifts and there they were with absolutely nothing to give anyone. They sat in silence, until suddenly these words leapt out of the old woman's heart.
"I know. I will give you the gift of the sky above us."
And she could see that something swept through his heart, for he closed his eyes for a long moment, inhaled deeply, then opened his eyes again, and looked directly at her. He replied, "I am honored to receive your gift to me." And the old woman expected him to say no more.
Then all of a sudden he spoke again. "And...and I give you in return, the gift of these stars overhead."
"Also I am honored," she said. And they sat on in mutual heartache, a deepening joy, and contemplation.
Words rushed again into her mouth, from where she did not know. "And I return the favor to you, for I will give you the... the gift of the moon this night."
He remained silent for a long, long time. He was searching the sky for something else to give, hut
there was nothing left, for they had given everything that could be seen in the night sky. So they sat in utter quiet.
At last the words came to him. "Ah, I see it now. I return your kindness by giving you the story that I have just told. Keep it safe. Carry it out of these woods in great health."
And they nodded, for they knew that a strong story, perhaps more than anything else, could light the dark fields and forests that lay ahead for each.
In that hut, on that night, in that wood, they dared to recall their pasts; times of laughter, candlelight, steaming food, friendly faces, arms about their shoulders, the music of fiddles, the dancing and rosy-faced children. They drew on the warmth of the gifts given, certain for that time at least, and perhaps forever, that there was reason to believe in the ultimate goodness of humans.
Perhaps it was the apron she gave to him to cover his poor head, for like the young woman in his tale, the old woman had far more hair than the old man. Or perhaps it was because the stars and the
moon had become their great timepiece, like the watch of the young man in the tale. Or maybe because the trails they would follow lay before them like a silvery watch chain, or perhaps because they might someday be able to look forward to the growing back of something of theirs that once was beautiful and unencumbered. Whatever the reasons, and maybe for a thousand reasons that they could not, that you and I cannot, nor any of us will ever completely understand... but blessed be that it was so, because...
it was enough.
According to my dear aunt, the old man and old woman both agreed that it was safer to go forth separately. So, the following evening in a wintry twilight in Hungary, they parted and went their ways, taking their chances alone in the forest. Like so many others in a war devastated land, their fates became God's business. And that is all we know, for they never saw one another again.
As a child, I wanted to search for them and confirm their survival. "What became of them, where can they be?" I asked. Auntie explained that the old man was really a special kind of being, one who could perhaps never die, for surely his stories kept him strong and alive, as the stories she knew kept her alive, and as mine would do for me. "And the old woman?" I asked. "Where can she be?"
Silence. Then, looking into the distance to place only she could see, Auntie said, "I believe she may yet he living."
EPILOGUE
I HAVE HEARD MANY ORAL VERSIONS OF
the old man's story, and as a young adult, I read one similar to his called "Gifts of the Magi," authored by 0. Henry in 1905. I am still taken with how the core of story remains the same stalwart, glowing thing, regardless of what ornamentation or variant words are placed around it.
In the oral tradition, "Gifts of the Magi" is called a literary story, which is usually a short story written down using elements culled from or clearly reminiscent of much
And they smiled sadly, for both their traditions required gifts and there they were with absolutely nothing to give anyone. They sat in silence, until suddenly these words leapt out of the old woman's heart.
"I know. I will give you the gift of the sky above us."
And she could see that something swept through his heart, for he closed his eyes for a long moment, inhaled deeply, then opened his eyes again, and looked directly at her. He replied, "I am honored to receive your gift to me." And the old woman expected him to say no more.
Then all of a sudden he spoke again. "And...and I give you in return, the gift of these stars overhead."
"Also I am honored," she said. And they sat on in mutual heartache, a deepening joy, and contemplation.
Words rushed again into her mouth, from where she did not know. "And I return the favor to you, for I will give you the... the gift of the moon this night."
He remained silent for a long, long time. He was searching the sky for something else to give, hut
there was nothing left, for they had given everything that could be seen in the night sky. So they sat in utter quiet.
At last the words came to him. "Ah, I see it now. I return your kindness by giving you the story that I have just told. Keep it safe. Carry it out of these woods in great health."
And they nodded, for they knew that a strong story, perhaps more than anything else, could light the dark fields and forests that lay ahead for each.
In that hut, on that night, in that wood, they dared to recall their pasts; times of laughter, candlelight, steaming food, friendly faces, arms about their shoulders, the music of fiddles, the dancing and rosy-faced children. They drew on the warmth of the gifts given, certain for that time at least, and perhaps forever, that there was reason to believe in the ultimate goodness of humans.
Perhaps it was the apron she gave to him to cover his poor head, for like the young woman in his tale, the old woman had far more hair than the old man. Or perhaps it was because the stars and the
moon had become their great timepiece, like the watch of the young man in the tale. Or maybe because the trails they would follow lay before them like a silvery watch chain, or perhaps because they might someday be able to look forward to the growing back of something of theirs that once was beautiful and unencumbered. Whatever the reasons, and maybe for a thousand reasons that they could not, that you and I cannot, nor any of us will ever completely understand... but blessed be that it was so, because...
it was enough.
According to my dear aunt, the old man and old woman both agreed that it was safer to go forth separately. So, the following evening in a wintry twilight in Hungary, they parted and went their ways, taking their chances alone in the forest. Like so many others in a war devastated land, their fates became God's business. And that is all we know, for they never saw one another again.
As a child, I wanted to search for them and confirm their survival. "What became of them, where can they be?" I asked. Auntie explained that the old man was really a special kind of being, one who could perhaps never die, for surely his stories kept him strong and alive, as the stories she knew kept her alive, and as mine would do for me. "And the old woman?" I asked. "Where can she be?"
Silence. Then, looking into the distance to place only she could see, Auntie said, "I believe she may yet he living."
EPILOGUE
I HAVE HEARD MANY ORAL VERSIONS OF
the old man's story, and as a young adult, I read one similar to his called "Gifts of the Magi," authored by 0. Henry in 1905. I am still taken with how the core of story remains the same stalwart, glowing thing, regardless of what ornamentation or variant words are placed around it.
In the oral tradition, "Gifts of the Magi" is called a literary story, which is usually a short story written down using elements culled from or clearly reminiscent of much
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