The Orange Bulb and Mama

The beagle slept at the bottom of the bed, on top of the little girl’s covered feet. She was warm under her Christmas blanket—a cocoon of ancestral yarn knitted by Papa’s mama—but the tiny girl, well, she was jittery with restlessness. Her brain was bouncing, firing, hammering and could not keep itself focused on the task of falling asleep, which, to be fair to the girl under the blanket, was a task rarely accomplished with ease for her.

Next to the girl’s bed there was a window, and on that window’s will stood a plastic candle. An orange bulb burned a steady, deep shade.

‘That candle sure glows, Benny,’ the small girl whispered. The dog and girl were awash in the orange dreamlight.

The beagle lifted his head, only slightly.

‘I simply can’t stay still, Benny,’ she said, sitting up in bed. The Christmas blanket dropped to rest on her lap.

‘It’s almost Christmas!’ That came out too loud. The girl froze. She heard Mama turn in her bed from the next room.

She leaned down, closer to the dog. ‘Shh, shh, sorry, Benny.’ The girl blinked in the orange brilliance of their bed. ‘But, it’s almost Christmas, and maybe I’m too excited.’

The beagle lifted his head higher, searching for the calendar hanging in the room. He was not good with remembering dates, but the dog was fairly sure the holiday was still weeks away. Benny saw the X‘s scratched on the days. Hmm. So it was December 24th. This was Christmas Eve. The beagle shook his head and lay it back between his paws. He truly was quite bad with dates, apparently.

The little girl grabbed Benny’s cheeks and whispered into his face, ‘I really am excited, Benny, I swear I am.’ She looked back and forth, as if expecting someone to be eavesdropping. ‘But, this Santa business… I don’t know, Benny… It’s odd, and I’m suspicious.’

The beagle’s tongue lapped out and he licked his girl’s hand.

Salty, he thought as he licked. I’m always hungry. I was destined to be a hog. Like that sow Papa keeps in the barn.

‘Oh, Ben, I don’t wanna jump to conclusions, but—’

The small girl listened for Mama or Papa to toss in bed again. When she heard only snoring coming from their room, she continued.

‘Benny, I’m not fibbing here, but I think Mama and Papa are having one over on us.’

The dog whimpered.

‘I know, Benny, I know,’ the girl cooed, rubbing his chin. ‘But, I’m pretty certain. I think they’re having a little fun with us.’

She looked to the fake candle with the fake dripping wax, burning orange against the window pane. Outside, a whisper of snow fell from the frozen night sky to the ground, blanketing the old bales of hay with a glittering frost.

The small girl turned, pulling the beagle with her, and she sat cross-legged in front of the window. Together, girl and dog watched the world outside, sailing toward winter and colder shores.

She pet his sweet and tired head.

‘It’s probably Mama,’ said the little girl. ‘Papa’s always yawning by the time dinner’s on the table. It’s probably up to Mama to be Santa on Christmas Eve.’

The beagle was succumbing to slumber once more.

‘Mama’s full of energy, Benny. She’s got to be Santa.’

Short snores came from the dog. The small girl smiled and chuckled, quietly.

The snow, fragile, almost weightless, dropped from the clouds and landed on the yellow grass without breaking. The girl gazed into darkness, her face awake with the shine of the orange bulb. She now knew her Mama to be Santa, and she considered the knowledge.

Petting the beagle’s sleeping body, the little girl said, ‘You probably think I’m crazy, Ben… but, Mama is Santa.’

The dog kicked softly in his sleep. Dreaming his dreams.

‘Benny, if we stayed awake a little longer and we snuck down the stairs, we’d see the truth…’

Down floated the snow. Away from its numbing chill, the small girl held her friend.

‘She’s Mama Claus. I can’t believe it, Benny. She puts the presents under the tree, just so. That’s her. It’s all mama…’

The plastic candle with the orange bulb glowed on.

‘No chimney for Mama Claus to sneak down. She uses the stairs, Benny.’

The girl felt her eyelids crash down. She tossed them open again, but there was no battling it, there was no use: she was growing tired.

‘We’re lucky, Benny. So lucky. Just think on it, Ben…’

Yawning, she closed her eyes, her head tilting downward. But, she spoke still. One final thought before midnight.

‘Out of all the mamas in the world, Benny, our Mama is Santa.’

The window, with the plastic candle and its orange bulb, it framed the little girl and beagle and held them as they slept.

At some point in the night, Mama, with arms full of presents, made her way down the stairs.