This Christmas, as ever at this time of year, br there’s a worldwide brotherhood and sisterhood br whose numbers I cannot count br and would not wish to know; br who seldom know each other; br and perhaps, that’s just as well.. br br who, in their dressing-gowns on Christmas morn, br amid bright wrappings hasty torn, br and exclamations… br fall suddenly quiet, br are far, somewhere else for several moments; br return, and look silently in thought, deeply, br at partner, children; their eyes br now a little more shining than they were.. br br or who, at a lively dinner-party, br fall quiet for a minute, br look around the table, thoughtfully; or br squeeze a hand, secretly; then br return as if they’d never been away; br return perhaps with new vigour br in their conversation and in response.. br br or even, acceptably alone at Christmas, br celebrate it in this quietness; br if you knew them, which you don’t, br you might say something to them; br or, just might not know what you should say.. br br who are these, suddenly quiet br for a moment, far away, br celebrating something in their quietness? br br they are those whose quietness would say, br this is what I never knew, when I a child; br longed for, never thought it would come true; br how fortunate I am, that I’ve survived br to feel like this… br br Indians might say, this is the story of your present life, br which you wrote with your previous life..