A Rose for Christmas
Claude Wilson sat in his twenty-year old pick-up across from the Galax Bus Station and Grill. The cab smelled of Camels, motor-oil, and Old Spice. With his gnarled, twisted fingers he hurried to finish whittling the final cuts on a wooden rose.
“Damn arth-ritis”, he grunted under his breath.
During the summer months he could lessen the pain by holding honey bees to the joints and letting them sting him. Now in the winter the most he could do was to connect the jumper cables to the truck battery and touch the ends to the aches. That just didn’t seem to work as good as the bees. The worst part was that the disease had made him have to quit working in the cotton mill when he was just sixty-four. He had hoped to work at least six more years. It was might near impossi
