Christmas Promise

It took nine months of having it ripen on my desk for me to realize that the short story I wrote in April was meant to be a Christmas story.

The part where readers in my writing workshop hoped for more and were disappointed, well, that’s where Christmas goes. The body of the story was there, its bones were all good, but it lacked a heartbeat.

Riding in the truck this morning, going over the high rise bridge and seeing Lake Michigan on one side and the city on the other, the spires of distant churches decorating the horizon, the heart of the story came to me, my reward for just this once, not being in a hurry.

The story is called the 12th Street Bridge, although it might have a new title once it has more heart, and it will be here tomorrow, a little wee Christmas present.