CHRISTMAS EVE

"Ssh," the old man said to the grandson sitting on his lap in front of the fireplace. "He'll be coming any minute now."
The boy moved closer and scrunched down into his grandfather's worn overalls. "Will they land on the roof?"
"I doubt it. It's pretty steep, and there's not much room up there. It's a big sleigh and sure as anything she's loaded to the hilt. Most likely he'll set her down out near the corncrib, by the big fodder shock where you dropped that pumpkin on your toe."
He swung his legs against the old man's thigh. "But I didn't cry."
"That's right, you didn't."
The boy glanced at the darkening windows. Fat snowflakes, fluffy as cotton balls, swirled against the panes. He frowned. "It's still snowing."
"Snow'll make the landing easier," the grandfather said. He leaned forward and sent a stream of tobacco juice into the fire. The flames sputtered, scattering shadows on the walls around the room and across the little bed in the corner with its covers already turned down. Swiping a calloused hand across his stubbled chin, he settled back. "Won't hinder him none. No siree."
"Besides," the boy said, "he's got Rudolph."
The grandfather nodded. "Him and Dasher and Dancer and the rest. They'll circle the house a couple of times, then he'll cut 'em back to landing speed and you'll hear the jingle of sleigh bells--that's the tip off. And then," he raised his hand, tilted it sideways and floated it through the air, "he'll bring 'em in low over the trees and set down just as pretty as you please."
The boy shivered, clutched at the flannel-covered arm of his grandfather and pulled it down.
The old man cocked his head sideways and cupped a hand to his ear. "Listen."
The boy sat still and held his breath, straining to hear. Above the whisper of the wind, he heard a jingle. Leaping from his grandfather's lap, he headed for the bed. Just as he dove beneath the covers and the featherbed closed in around him, he heard a faint "HO-HO-HO."