The young woman emailed me her story. She said she was lonely. She was 32 and single. Her therapist said she was depressed. He suggested medication. Then, her therapist asked whether she had plans for Christmas. She gave a bitter laugh and lit a Marlboro.

“Christmas is just another day,” was her philosophy.

To be fair, she had reason to be depressed. She had relocated to north Alabama for work. She had no friends in this city. Her family lived twelve states away.

Her townhome had no Christmas decorations. What was the point? Who was going to see them? Plus, she was hardly ever home. She spent her life in a cubicle.

Each year, the newly built townhouse neighborhood emptied at Christmas. It was a soulless subdivision. No decor in the yards. Namely, because most of the homes were occupied by young, urban professionals with decent jobs, new cars, and rooms full of crappy Ikea furniture.

Every Christmas, it was a mass exodus. The residents all packed up their late-model SUVs and vacated to their hometowns.

But the girl was still home. In this vacant neighborhood. This anemic housing complex. Sort of like living on an empty movie set.

A few days before Christmas, she saw an old man walking his dog. Her neighbor. He was a widower, that was all she knew about him. She was on her front stoop, smoking, when he passed her home.

“Hi,” she said.

He gave her a nod and a smile.

Together they watched his little Yorkie waddle around the frozen grass, locked in a half squatting pose, caught in the painful throes of constipation. The Yorkie’s name was Buddha. Currently, little Buddha was having a difficult time finding the much needed relief of enlightenment.

“Are you having a nice Christmas?” the old man asked.

Shrug. “Christmas is just some other day.”

He smiled.

The conversation was brief. They bid each other goodbye and parted ways.

The next morning was Christmas Eve. The old was walking his dog again. He shuffled the neighborhood sidewalks at sunrise, bundled in a coat, wearing the dreaded Plastic Baggy of Shame over his hand.

She was outside smoking again.

“How are you today?” he asked.

Shrug.

Buddha was kicking up grass with his hind legs in triumph. The little Yorkie had finally achieved inner peace.

The old man and the girl exchanged weak smiles. They went into their respective homes.

That evening, he saw her again. Sitting on her patio, smoking.

“Would you like to walk with me?” he said.

It was a weird request, from a man who named his dogs after Indian Religion figureheads. But she accepted his invitation. It was, after all, Christmas Eve.

They made conversation. It was nice conversation. She was quick-witted and funny. And he was a great listener. By the time they got home, they were both in better moods. The young woman went to sleep feeling pretty good.

On Christmas morning she was woken to the sound of knocking on her door. The old man was standing on her doorstep. He held large to-go bags with the Waffle House logo imprinted on them.

“Christmas breakfast,” the old man said.

She invited him in. They ate in her kitchen. In her Christmas-tree-less house. And he stayed for a while. In fact, they spent the whole day together. They talked. They laughed a lot. They watched old movies. They ate supper together. Canned soup and Wonder Bread toast. Like two adults.

That night, they parted ways, they embraced. It felt so good to hold someone. It had been a while for her. A long while.

“Merry Christmas,” he said to her, mid-hug.

But as it happens she did not reply, for the young woman was unable to speak.

Christmas is not just some other day.