Half-past five on the evening of December twenty-third. A small green sedan, dented in the right fender, an over-sized blue spruce strapped precariously to the roof, is cruising along the winding roads out of the mountains. Inside, the rich voice of Nat King Cole weaves a holiday warmth around the small family contentedly settled within. Chestnuts roasting on an open fire; Jack frost nipping at your nose. One tiny tot drowsily points out the emerging stars to her already sleeping younger sister. Ursa major, the north star, and Orion the Hunter slide past to vanish in the lights of the car's headlights. Everybody knows a turkey and some mistletoe help to make the season bright. The driver smiles softly at the whispers of his daughter as he gently places one hand on his wife's shoulder. Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow will find it hard to sleep tonight. A glance shared warms the little car with the glow of love. The whisper of needles from the spruce brushing against the back window joins the mellow tones of the Christmas Song. And every mother's child is going to spy to see if reindeer really know how to fly. The little car drifts lazily around the curves in the road. The driver keeps one hand lightly on the wheel as he gently cups the other around his wife's chin. So I'm offering this simple phrase-- Their lips brush lightly. The left tire slips silently onto a patch of black ice. --to kids from one-- The rear of the car begins to swing wide. A passionate gaze is exchanged in the front seat. --to ninety-two. The front of the car plows silently into the snow along the road. The spell in the front seat is broken as the driver frantically grasps the wheel. Although it's been said-- Twisted metal steams against the tree. --many times, many ways-- The back tire spins in the air. --merry Christmas to you.