Christmas Eve in the Forest

By Peter Bowden


On Christmas Eve the woods glowed without asking to be seen. The trail unwound ahead of him like a thought half-remembered, empty not from neglect but from reverence. The pond lay open and shining, a blue-green eye reflecting trees that leaned closer, curious to see what winter had made of them. Pines whispered evergreen prayers while the bare trees lifted their thin arms, writing secret letters to the sky.

The air held its breath. Light drifted down through branches and settled on the water, where it lingered like a story unwilling to end. He walked slowly, feeling time soften beneath his steps. Old Christmas Eves floated up around him, lamplit rooms, laughter sealed in glass ornaments, the warmth of voices now folded into the calendar of his life, their edges worn smooth by remembering. They hovered sweetly, like fireflies caught in memory, glowing without heat, refusing to fade.

At the pond’s edge the world paused completely. The trees stood guard. The water remembered everything. Somewhere beyond the forest, houses burned bright and clocks hurried toward morning, but here the night kept its miracle intact. When he finally turned back, the trail closed behind him, the woods drawing Christmas Eve into their quiet chest, where it would shine on unseen, unclaimed, and endlessly alive.

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