A Combo . . . Mixing Pink with Orange? By Nuzhat Shahzadi

It was the week of Christmas.

Our neighborhood sparkled at night. The front yard Christmas-illuminations matched the tempo of the festive season. December also celebrated St Nicholas Day (December 6), Bodhi Day (December 8), Feast of Our Lady Guadalupe (December 12), Hanukkah (December 15-22), Yule (December 21-1 January) and of course the New Year's Eve on the 31st, and many more.

There is nothing wrong in wishing "Happy Holidays" ––it's not a war against "Merry Christmas" (ignorant American MAGA followers. . .). It's inclusivity, celebrating diversity.

I cancelled all news channels. Now I read news online when I want to. I can control the news of who kills who, how many bombs fell where . . . it has numbed the cries of the children in Gaza, Ukraine . . . my mature war-torn walloped-heart is protected from emotional turbulence. I have realized I can't influence the macro- outer world––I can create joy in my own-inner-micro universe. This thought is liberating . . . it's my "happy-holidays" gift to myself after years of cohabiting with active-wars. Wise, right?

. . . I picked up chocolates, pastries, strawberries . . . wine bottles from the Whole Foods Store to celebrate upcoming festivities, friends' birthdays. The store is only .5 miles from our house. I realized the weight of the shopping bags as I walked back (slowly). I put them down on the sidewalk while waiting for the traffic signal to cross the road. Two young White women with an infant were waiting to cross. I saw them ahead of me––pushing the stroller. One was tall, slim–– the other plump and short. I wasn't sure whether they were a couple or friends––hard to tell these days.

We exchanged smiles.

"It's a bit heavy." My awkward excuse for putting down the bags.

"Oh, I can help you carry one bag," the tall woman offered. She wouldn't take no for an answer. "We're going the same way." She was genuine, welcoming. It touched me.

The election had killed "somethings" inside my heart ––37% White women (pro-life), 36% Hispanic women had voted for Trump. This rap kept consuming my brain––hip-hopping, on and on . . .

"Is it a girl or a boy? How old?" I was back in my spontaneous self.

"It's a girl."

"She's 7 weeks old." They told me.

The signal light changed. We crossed the road––now with one bag-burden lighter. I had to tell them about my granddaughters––Izara and Raya.

We laughed, talked a bit more. In ten minutes, a pool of joy was shared . . .

I turned left and thanked them. We said: "Happy holidays, a merry Christmas and a joyful New Year!"

They took the road straight ahead. I walked towards home––my stupid heart filled with warmth––once again believing in the goodness around us.

All isn't lost. Not yet.