AlightdrizzlewasfallingasmysisterJillandIranoutoftheMethodistChurch,eagertogethomeandplaywiththepresentsthatSantahadleftforusandourbabysister,Sharon.AcrossthestreetfromthechurchwasaPanAmericangasstationwheretheGreyhoundbusstopped.ItwasclosedforChristmas,butInoticedafamilystandingoutsidethelockeddoor,huddledunderthenarrowoverhanginanattempttokeepdry.IwonderedbrieflywhytheyweretherebutthenforgotaboutthemasIracedtokeepupwithJill.

Oncewegothome,therewasbarelytimetoenjoyourpresents.Wehadtogoofftoourgrandparents’houseforourannualChristmasdinner.Aswedrovedownthehighwaythroughtown,Inoticedthatthefamilywasstillthere,standingoutsidetheclosedgasstation.

Myfatherwasdrivingveryslowlydownthehighway.Thecloserwegottotheturnoffformygrandparents’house,theslowerthecarwent.Suddenly,myfatherU-turnedinthemiddleoftheroadandsaid,“Ican’tstandit!”

“What?”askedmymother.

“ItsthosepeoplebackthereatthePanAm,standingintherain.Theyvegotchildren.ItsChristmas.Ican’tstandit.”

Whenmyfatherpulledintotheservicestation,Isawthattherewerefiveofthem:theparentsandthreechildren―twogirlsandasmallboy.

Myfatherrolleddownhiswindow.“MerryChristmas,”hesaid.