Edith rolled over, opened one eye, and checked the digital clock next to her bed. It read, quarter to nine. She rolled back over. No point in getting up. Nothing waiting, no doctor appointments. No lunches to pack or children to get off to school. No dog to walk or litter box to clean.

Before she could return to the same old dream, the one where she had long hair and hips that worked, she heard Stan flush his toilet.

One sound of a toilet flushing sent her bladder an unwanted signal - time to pee. And, so she got up and got about living.

Tomorrow was Christmas. Not that you could tell by her apartment, no tree, no ornaments, no mistletoe, no garland.

Out her window, Palm trees swayed while men mowed green grass. No snow. No white Christmas, just another sunny day.

She checked her mail. The small box bulged with magazines and miracle hearing aid offers, and Last-Chance opportunities for better health care.

No Christmas cards. Unless you count one from her dentist. Nice guy, except he charged her a hundred and fifty dollars to clean her twelve remaining teeth.

She dropped the only slice of bread remaining in the loaf into the toaster and put the kettle on to boil.

Her pill container reminded her to take the AM doses. If things continued, she'd have to buy a bigger container with more categories - AM, Mid AM, without food, with food, and PM.

She opened the small lid and chugged the entire assortment with a glass of water. Better living through chemistry was a lie. It should be simply "continued living" - nothing "better" about it.

Stan flushed his toilet again. His pee pills were working.

At least he was still alive and kicking. A few weeks ago, an ambulance showed up in the middle of the night. The sound of flushing toilets ceased for a week.

Edith thought he'd met his maker. Shuffled off to Buffalo. Escaped the grasp of Christmas past.

But he showed up last week pushing a tricked-out walker in house slipper'd feet. Congratulations, you've lived long enough to rip another page off your annual calendar. Good job, Stan, the Man!

She sat down at her tiny table in her tiny kitchen and looked out onto the walkway. She dunked her toast into her coffee like Chester used to do it. Chester...her Chester. Her husband. Until he wasn't anymore.

The old lady down the hall walked by with a handfull of mail. Probably from her many children and grandchildren.

Edith thought about her children. They were scattered all over the world. All two of them. Mark in Germany and Cindy in Paris. Both happy and successful. Great careers. Promising futures. Up-and-comer's.

Certainly something to be proud of. Her one major accomplishment in life. Giving birth. Big whoops.

She spent the day watching old movies. First "It's a Wonderful Life" and then "White Christmas".

At seven o'clock Mark called. "Merry Christmas, miss you, wish I were there, your gift is in the mail...etc."

Cindy would call tomorrow. Big Whoop.

She lit a small candle on her tiny table and poured a glass of wine.

Then came a familiar sound of a walker scooting toward her apartment. Stan the Man pushing his way into the future. What a guy.

The walker stopped outside her door. Stan knocked softly at first and then gave it a more robust effort.

Edith buttoned up her housecoat and answered. Stan stood there in his bathrobe, hanging onto the walker. A bottle of champagne sat in a metal basket next to a large bouquet of roses.

"What in the hell are you doing?" Edith said.

"I'm playing Santa Claus."

"Where's your reindeer's?"

"Can't have them in Seven Lakes. They weigh more than 25 pounds."

And...Edith began to laugh. The first time she'd laughed since she could remember when.

"Damn, never heard you laugh before," Stan said. "Can an old man come inside on a wintery night?"

"Wipe the snow off your houseshoes and pull up a chair."

He turned his walker around and sat on the wide seat.

Edith opened the door on her hutch and pulled out two champagne glasses and a flower vase. They were covered in dust. She washed them carefully by hand and offered them to Stan.

"Fancy-Shmanzy," he said as he popped the cork on the bubbly.

Edith arranged the roses in her seldom used vase and opened a can of sardines and a sleeve of crackers. "Dinner," she said.

"And a fine spread it is," Stan said, raising his glass for a toast. "Merry Christmas neighbor."

"And a happy new year to you, Stan."

She sipped her champagne and nibbled on a saltine cracker. Stan sat across from her, eating sardines like they were caviar. He had nice hands. His nails were clean and trimmed. She liked that in a man.

He reached over to her tiny radio, "May I?" he asked.

She nodded.

He turned to a Christmas station. A song began to play, "Whadda you doing New Year's Eve?" He sang along in a baritone voice. Then he stopped and looked at Edith. "Well?"

"Well what?" she asked.

"Do'in New Year's Eve?"

And suddenly, the world seemed a little brighter, as if someone had turned on a beam of hope filled with sunshine.

"Next week I'll bring the sardines," he said.

"Perfect," Edith said.