In Esperanto: Kristnasko en Biloxi

Christmas Eve at the quarter century, a fog lay thick and expectant across the bay, draping out over the city with whom it shares a name—an eldritch and unnatural thing in the unseasonal warmth, one that could well have concealed most anything. The living land is bounded by two elevations. From below is the level of the sea, which gently rises and reclines in response to the come-hither of the moon. From above is the water-line, fixed and dead: the indelible stain left by the deluge, a scar engraved by that harpy, who had scourged this place a score of years prior. The ancient and intransigent oaks, whose branches spread within this zone of death, between the water’s rightful home and this space of its brutal occupation, had hunkered, had endured the bitch’s wrath, had survived, and their Spanish beards now hung halfway to the soil.

Atop a foundation of concrete, above the water-line, under the ancient oaks, among the trees’ Spanish beards, within a clean and well-lit box of chrome and glass, across from each other in our booth, we sat at ease. From overhead and all around, Elvis and Dolly sang about the spirit of Christmas; hers the sweetness and hardship of hard candy, his the simple loneliness of being blue. Then appeared the incarnate face of hospitality itself, steaming plates at the ready, all just the right amount of crispy and runny, in just the right places. God bless us, every one.

Waffle House #2314.