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CHRISTMAS MORNING and Y’Boy there by he one, sit-down by the Christmas tree. The Madam ent up yet and them two chirren not here at all, them in two different time zone and all. The youth-man in Montreal, in a ville named Rigault, which benefit from the French translation becaw, in truth, is not much more than a village, really, whereby the only important product of Rigault is Y’Boy son’ gyul, which is the reason the youth-man there in Quebec: is love.
And Y’Boy daughter, the onliest female grandchild on the both sides of the extended family, on the next side of the Atlantic, she there in London, suffering under Bojo the Clown & the Vote Leave government incompetence, whereby nobody social distancing and must be only half the people wearing masks.
All o’ we in the same storm at sea, but not in the same boat.
And Y’Boy know that, as the boats and them going nowadays, he seaworthy. Even if Y’Boy ent have no gardener to mow lawn and wash car, at least he ent have no landlord or mortgagee to chuck him out on Old Year’s Night.
So mucha people carrying real weight of uncertainty on they backs that bend for so long now, is a wonder that all ent fall down, yet.
When Wayne Brown did get his cancer diagnosis, plenty people tell him, “But you ent looking skinny at all!”
Wayne tell them: “Have patience.”
All ent fall down.
Not one present under the tree. Is a real make-as-eef this year, with father giving son insurance premium for they Christmas, and wife giving husband diabetes medicine. Is water more than flour and evaporated milk more than rum in the poncha crema.
In this celebration guava season, Y’Boy does jealous the believers and them, momentarily.
Is preposterous, faith.
But is something.
And something is better than nothing.
But Y’Boy will always fall on the side of reason, even if he landing in bougainvillea, gru-gru bef and cow-itch.
You could reach important truths faster, from the rough ground of logic than on the wings of mysticism and superstition.
Like: you doesn’t need God, if you have Love.
And you doesn’t need Moses’ Ten Commandments, just Jesus’ one.
Love thy neighbour as thyself, whether they straight or gay, black or white, Arab or Jew, PNM or UNC, Democrat or Republican, Trump or Biden…
All right, Y’Boy admit: the analogy break down; you can’t love Trump.
But you could try.
That is all the poor miserable firetrucker did ever want, probably. If he father did love Donald Trump, Trump wouldn’t have to make the world Hell for so many others; becaw he woulda be cool with he-self.
We come into the world alone, and leave it same way, whether we’re born twins or die in a plane crash.
The onliest hard currency you have is time.
The onliest thing of value it have to buy with your time is connections to others.
All else is vanity.
Y’Boy know that, eef Donald Trump could only realise people would love him more if he try to protect them from covid than if he try to overthrow President Biden government, Donald Trump-self would be happier.
You could lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink and you could lead a moron to reason but you can’t make him think.
Trump happy, yes.
Christmas morning and Y’Boy there by he one, sit-down by the Christmas tree, missing he son and daughter; them is big man and woman now.
And Y’Boy feeling to cry like a baby, studying how one there in Lawn-dawn and the other reach quite-o quite-o Rig-o.
And neither of the both of them could reach home self.
Is a firetruck up thing, this covid Christmas, whereby all human contact have to take place six feet apart.
But, in-between all the misery and the absence, and the face-masks and hand-washing, the connections still there.
Hope springs eternal in the human breast and Y’Boy get to he feet slow, with a sigh-turning-smile.
Is time to wake up the Madam, now, with the only gift we ever really have for one another.
BC Pires getting sentimental as he losing his hair. Merry Christmas to all on Sunday and from Thank God It’s Friday