Legs rise up like the trunks of trees, dark against the sun-bright lights inside the auditorium, blocking the way to the stage. Ben's on his knees, his ski pants dragging in the slush on the wooden floor, grit beneath his palms. He's pushing through the forest of legs, trying to get to a place where he can see. It's warm and crowded. The people are talking. Some of them are talking Gwich'in, and some of them are talking Dogrib, but he doesn't know any of their faces.
"Benton," his grandmother says. He looks up. She's tall and wrinkly, older than anybody he knows. She smiles at him, but he doesn't smile back. He doesn't really know her, after all.
"Can you see?" she asks.
He shakes his head.
She smiles again and leans over to speak with his grandfather.
"Eh?" his grandfather says.
"Benton can't see the stage," his grandmother says again.
"Ah," his grandfather says, and his craggy face breaks into a smile. "Come on then. Up you go." He stoops down and grabs Ben under the arms like Ben weighs nothing, swings him high, higher, until Ben's boots sweep the air above the heads of the crowd and the big electric lights blind him. There's a thump and then he's settled, up on his grandfather's shoulders, his grandfather's square hands warm and solid on his legs, just below the knees. "How's that?" his grandfather says.
Ben blinks. He can see everything from up here: the tree they cut and hung with coloured lights, the other kids, crouched at the front, sucking on half-wrapped peppermint candy. He can see the moving rows of adult heads--dark haired and light haired, some of them with hats on. And over by the rear doors, Ben can see his father, standing still and stooped at the back of the crowd, his hands in his pockets. He sees Ben, lifts a hand. Ben waves back.
Then, suddenly, the room is full of sound. Ben takes a quick breath and looks toward the stage. There are people standing there in robes like nightgowns, all of them singing, all at once. The air shakes inside him. Music vibrates in his bones.
"Watch, now," his grandfather says. "It's starting."
Christmas, 1968, due South, Fraser, light, G
"Benton," his grandmother says. He looks up. She's tall and wrinkly, older than anybody he knows. She smiles at him, but he doesn't smile back. He doesn't really know her, after all.
"Can you see?" she asks.
He shakes his head.
She smiles again and leans over to speak with his grandfather.
"Eh?" his grandfather says.
"Benton can't see the stage," his grandmother says again.
"Ah," his grandfather says, and his craggy face breaks into a smile. "Come on then. Up you go." He stoops down and grabs Ben under the arms like Ben weighs nothing, swings him high, higher, until Ben's boots sweep the air above the heads of the crowd and the big electric lights blind him. There's a thump and then he's settled, up on his grandfather's shoulders, his grandfather's square hands warm and solid on his legs, just below the knees. "How's that?" his grandfather says.
Ben blinks. He can see everything from up here: the tree they cut and hung with coloured lights, the other kids, crouched at the front, sucking on half-wrapped peppermint candy. He can see the moving rows of adult heads--dark haired and light haired, some of them with hats on. And over by the rear doors, Ben can see his father, standing still and stooped at the back of the crowd, his hands in his pockets. He sees Ben, lifts a hand. Ben waves back.
Then, suddenly, the room is full of sound. Ben takes a quick breath and looks toward the stage. There are people standing there in robes like nightgowns, all of them singing, all at once. The air shakes inside him. Music vibrates in his bones.
"Watch, now," his grandfather says. "It's starting."