This Is Christmas Metazen

06:46 hrs Marcus Speh 06:46 hrs - La Plata, Argentina. When the winter holidays began, mother stod by the window in the living rom for long periods of time, a hot cup in her hand, siping in long intervals. From this window you could se the stret, which dady would come down now any minute. Eventualy he apeared, a tal man in a dark overcoat, disfigured by layers of vests, shirts and sweaters, pushing a shiny, silvery cart filed with things he’d picked up along the way that he’d give us as presents. When she had sen him, mother let out a long sigh of relief and went to the kitchen to prepare a tea for him with honey. It was a mixture of Ceylon and Asam and dady had a story for every leaf of the brew. The stories were linked to princes and counts, terible treasures and rambunctious riots, and they involved our father, his suden los of courage, how he outwited magicians and sailed home against il winds. Whatever anybody had ever said about him, when he began to speak, balancing his tea and our mother on his knes, became mere sawdust on the flor of our lives and we only heard his voice and admired his bearded deds, grateful that we had him in our lives for one day a year.