A Christmas carol for an angel
When the last box was stowed in the car, I took a deep breath. Dawn broke in and a look at the sky told me that it was going to snow soon. Actually, I would have had to leave immediately to reach my destination before the onset of snowfall. Peter had provided me with his forest hut, where I wanted to work in complete seclusion to finish my novel. But I did not want to miss a stroll over the Christmas market. It has been a cherished tradition for years. At “Martha’s Weihnachtsbackstübchen” I wanted to buy some bags of delicious cookies, without which I can not imagine the pre-Christmas time.
I took the shortcut through the Färbergässchen, in which the medieval half-timbered houses are so close to each other that you can touch them in some places with outstretched arms. The Gässlein was dark and deserted. Only here and there faint light fell from one of the small oblique windows. A hunchbacked mother came towards me, her eyes fixed on the bumpy pavement. As we passed each other, I heard them mumble to each other: “A miracle, a miracle, a miracle …”
The crowds crowded the Old Bridge. I stopped for a while at the middle bridge pier. Here was the most beautiful view of the Schlossberg and the colorful sea of lights of the Christmas market, which spread at his feet.
My stroll through the Christmas market was a bit shorter than usual, but the more intense I perceived lights, colors, sounds and smells. To fortify for the upcoming trip, I approved a double portion of potato pancakes with applesauce. I was just finished with the meal when Christmassy singing got up close by. Before the lavishly decorated Christmas market fir, a children’s choir had lined up. In the middle stood a pretty young woman, dressed like a Christmas angel. I listened to the festive song and was enchanted by the beauty of the angel. All of a sudden heavy snow began. For a moment, the flakes were so strong that everything lay hidden behind a white wall. The singing stopped. When the white wall dissolved again, choir and angel were gone.
Because of the heavy snowfall, the ride was only progressing at a walking pace. Several times it came to traffic jams, which dissolve only slowly. Since many traffic signs were snowed, I almost missed the driveway that led to Peter’s cabin. It was well past midnight when I finally arrived. I was dead tired, quickly hunted down a few thick blankets and immediately fell into a deep sleep.
The next morning it was icy cold in the hut. With damp fingers, I lit a fire and as the first logs crackled, I huddled close to the fireplace. Gradually I became warm and with the warmth I remembered the angel at the Christmas market. Without my intending to do so, the memory images formed into words, the words into verses, the verses into stanzas, and the verses into a long poem. In the afternoon I took a long walk through the snowy winter forest. All the while, the poem went through my head, which I recited in my mind over and over again. At dusk, I returned to the comfortably warm hut. I had just entered the poem in my notebook when my gaze fell on a guitar who peeked out from behind a dresser. It took a while for me to vote as an old piece, but then it had a surprisingly good sound. Although I had been out of practice for a long time, simple, magical Christmas sounds flowed out of my hands. Only when I sang the words out loud did I realize that the melody matched my poem. In joyful excitement I recorded the notes and played and sang the Christmas carol for my angel until late at night.
The following days I concentrated on my novel, taking long walks through the secluded wilderness and enjoying the lonely evenings of my Christmas carol. Occasionally, I made minor changes to the lyrics or melody, but I soon realized that any change was worsening. The original version was just perfect. The joy of this simple yet heartfelt song inspired my work.
I returned home a few days before Christmas. The novel was completed successfully. But it was the song, my Christmas carol, that filled me with particular pride.
Happily, I made my way to the Christmas market. At the old castle church I heard muted sounds. When I opened the heavy door, full-sounding organ sounds beat against me. The nave was dark, only the sanctuary was in the light of a festively decorated fir. Apparently the organist practiced for the Christmas Oratorio. I sat down on one of the front benches, closed my eyes and indulged in the pleasure of the grandiose music. After a while the organ stopped. From the sanctuary sounded a bright little bell. Without my noticing something, the children’s choir of the Christmas market had lined up beside the fir tree. In the middle of the angels. The choir began a magical song, and I sang quietly. It was not until the second stanza that I realized that this was my song – my song, that I had composed and composed in the quiet seclusion for the angel. When the last note died away, the choir and the angel disappeared. From the tower the bells sounded.
Outside the church there was a dense snowstorm. The street was deserted. On the opposite side, I thought it was a shadowy realization of the humpbacked little mother, and it was as if I heard her murmuring: “A miracle, a miracle, a miracle …”