And when it happened, it was like the opening of a flower in the dark, the sudden ripening of fruit on the bough. A minute ago there was just the limp dead stocking. Now it hung heavy, bulging with gifts. Of all moments in childhood this must remain the most haunting, most unforgettable: the drowsy hand in the cold of the winter’s dawn reaching out as a test of hope, then suddenly finding itself filled with this weight of love, bestowed silently while it slept.
L.Lee, 'Village Christmas' Village Christmas and other notes on the English year (2015), 9
