Kay Andrea Voco J. Brown celebrates Christmas...

Kay Andrea Voco

J.Brown feiert Weihnachten...

... even though he is alone. Yes, he is alone—steeped in a sorrowful loneliness that chokes his throat and makes it hard for him to breathe. But: He is celebrating Christmas. He has decided as much. And a decision is a decision.

He bought himself a spruce tree—one that is lovely to look at, one that smells fresh. A large one, for the empty living room. It was quite a struggle to carry it home. He decorated it. A little kitschy, perhaps. But with real candles. He bought himself a few small gifts, wrapped them in colorful paper, tied them with glittering little bows, and placed them under the tree.

And so there they stand now, in the living room—the two of them: J. and the tree—and for a while, they remain silent. "Hello, Tree," says J., as the silence grows so loud that the very walls of his heart begin to tremble. "Hello, Human," says the tree. J. is startled. And who wouldn't be? Trees don't talk. That only happens in fairy tales. And this isn't a fairy tale. He must be mistaken—hallucinating, running a fever, or high on drugs. How else could any of this be explained? Yet he feels compelled to get to the bottom of it. Tentatively, softly, and cautiously, he tries again: "Hello, Tree," J. whispers. "Hello, Human," the tree replies in a strong, sonorous tone. J. is agitated; his heart pounds wildly. Inside him, fear and joy intermingle—fear of the unknown, and joy that, after all, he is not alone—good, sweet J. "You—you-you-you—you can talk!" J. stammers in bewilderment. "Yes," the tree replies, "I am, after all, an educated tree; I went to nursery school." — "Huh?" says J. — "Please, that word is unfamiliar to me," the clever tree answers.

"Are you glad I’m here?" the tree asks. "Yes," says J., "yes, of course." — "Good," says the tree, "then I’m glad, too. Well—just a little bit, anyway. It’s good that I’m not alone in the hour of my death." — "In the hour of your death?" asks J. "What do you mean by that?" — "Just what I said," the tree replies. "Look at me: I am gravely wounded; my roots have been amputated. That is why I must die soon. To keep you company. You simply can’t always choose your fate. So I am glad; and even if I weren't, it wouldn't make any difference."

"Human," says the tree, "since you are speaking with me, I will grant you a wish—my Christmas gift to you." — "Well," says J., "I’ll have to think about that. Let’s see... My most fervent wish has already been granted: that I am not alone." — "Don't take too long," the tree urges. "In fifteen minutes, it will be Christmas Eve; then it will be too late—then I won't be able to grant any more wishes." "The fact that you can speak," murmurs J., filled with reverent awe—"that such a thing exists..." "Very well," says the tree, "I will tell you the truth now: I made up that whole story about the nursery; I only said it to mess with you a little. The truth is: You are dreaming! In your dream, I can speak and grant wishes; in reality, I’m not even here."

J. smokes a joint. To relax. You wouldn't have expected that of him, would you? Neither would I. But then again, this is just a dream. In reality, he is far too lethargic to go out and buy a tree or presents. He has decided to sleep as much as possible over Christmas, which is why he stocked up on plenty of booze. This now comes back to him. "Sleep," says J. "I wish for lots of good sleep!" "Are you out of your mind?" the tree exclaims indignantly. "You don't wish for a few billion euros? Or pretty, willing sexual partners? Or world peace, or anything else amazing? Just sleep?" "Yes," says J., "because when I’m sleeping, I don't feel the fact that I’m alone—or that I lack the drive to go anywhere." "Oh, you foolish human," the tree grumbles in annoyance. "That’s a wish you could have granted yourself! But now *I* have to do it!"

J. is jolted out of his sleep by the shrill ringing of his alarm clock. He sits up and gazes at the shadow cast upon his duvet. He reflects on his dream. *Strange,* he thinks. *I’ve never really thought about what I want out of life.*

It is snowing outside. It is a cold winter. A man who carries ice deep within his heart. A man in whom one longs to find refuge—and Christmas fairy tales—and secretly wishes that the Christ Child truly existed after all.

"Christmas Eve is in two days," J. thinks, and decides to celebrate Christmas after all. He heads out and gets himself a tree. A spruce—one that is beautiful to look at, one that smells fresh. A big one, for the empty living room. And presents. And a grab bag. A childhood memory. My God, is this guy sentimental! And secretly, he wishes the tree could speak...

Out of the void of his inner silence, he suddenly feels...

To hear a voice—very, very faintly: "Hello?"

Property Crime (2)

So intimate was our bond,

so enduring,

that over time

plastic bags decayed,

radioactivity faded,

and long since buried,

bone against bone,

two distinct sets of remains—

entwined,

interwoven.

Artfully, from the outside,

the suffering of two

was transformed into a song—

the thoughts of a gravedigger,

born of a stranger’s solitude.