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Anything, but White

Lying back against the green, green Bermuda grass, with its sweet, sweet heaven scent, and unique bite, he tucked his arms behind his head. His shirt sleeves, of course, were white, white as were his pants, clasped with leather belt and palatinum buckle. Patent leather dress shoes, white, too. Church ready, with matching jacket and pale straw hat, at hand.

He looked up, up at the clouds, because cumulous was what Christmas to him was most about. About the way the clouds rolled in, in mighty billows, like the sailboats way down below, cradled in the ocean crests of the great, Great Pacific. White, waving on white, and breaking free on white glimmer. As far as the eye could see, West.

The snowcapped mountains beautiful, in the distance, Northeast, as in America the Beautiful, the purple majesties crowned, crowned with just enough snow powder. The sand below wasn't quite white white, but in the glare, almost so. Enough white to reinforce that special blank, that blanket feeling of change, of blank slate beginnings, that this time of the year offers. Like fresh chalk, yet to be tested.

It was December 25th and yes, he could, he could still sing, in the heat of the moment, in the verdant field, I'm Dreaming... of a White Christmas. And enjoy it as real; Real to him. Maybe it was a little different. Different, but pure. The Holiday was purity, and in association, Anything holy. Anything at all, but White, it should, and would be. Clean, innocent as the newborn. As daylight. As that perfect note, unfolding upon the wings of the freedom dove.

And he whistled, then sang lightly with Bing, sang modifying a little, in near rhyme: