The following is a short fiction piece inspired by the very real struggles of nearly an entire generation and one small act that could make a huge difference.

The Giving Of Spirit

The snow fell in whirling spirals, crystals dancing among one another stirred by the frigid December wind. A young woman slipped at the edge of the sparsely populated parking lot. She was on foot, wearing sneakers in winter. Despite her poor choice of footwear, she was dressed warmly enough for the weather. She traversed the icy asphalt quickly, used to the process. She only slipped the one time. The wind gusted, playing havoc with her short brown curls and needling her already stinging, pink nose.

She should've gone gift shopping earlier, spent her money gradually on unique presents for the people she loved. But she'd once again let life get in the way of logical preparation. Christmas was only six days away and she had few enough funds for gifts. It would be another skimpy year. Her heart burned with shame.

The automatic sliding doors enveloped her in the stale smell of cheap plastic and old sweat. K-Mart was a place she avoided when possible, but that smell held her Christmas hope tonight. It had been a long holiday season. She's had to work Thanksgiving since her family lived several states away. She lived alone and wasn't too keen on the cold. She'd taken off time for a short vacation from her “part-time” job. She worked roughly a day less than full time, and five days with her family was the most they could give her. Unpaid, naturally.

She wandered the aisles looking for cheap baubles or trinkets. She generally liked to give multiple gifts to each person, but that wasn't in the budget and it caused a lot of indecision. She'd happened upon a beautiful deep violet cashmere scarf and knew her mother would love it. As she continued to shop, her guilt at the price tag fought with her desire to give that cashmere scarf to her mom. She wanted to give at least one great gift this season. She put it back and walked away. Repeatedly.

The young woman tried to remind herself that the spirit of the season was, first and foremost, family. But she wanted to give and not just take from her loved ones. She couldn't show up empty-handed. She had to give something, even if it amounted to a paltry sum. She felt inferior.

Stepping into line behind a barrel-chested, ginger-bearded man, she took stock of her red hand basket -- the shallows of which boasted a green goblin-like teddybear, a bedazzled phone case, the cashmere scarf, and a big tin of buttered cookies (her dad's favorite). There was a pair of beautiful amethyst earrings she found on a clearance rack, 3 CDs fished from a bargain bin and a witty T-shirt. After a few mental calculations for the ballpark total, she thought she had enough, but she was a little worried; it was nearing payday and her last check had to go to rent. It wouldn't be the first time she'd had to leave something at the register. She usually volunteered to put it back, choosing to save them some trouble at least.

The line moved forward; it was ginger-beard's turn. The young woman placed her basket on the belt, smiling faintly at the older woman behind her in line. The older woman had laugh lines and looked to be in her mid-50s. She only had a string of classic rainbow lights, the kind you can only get in the “old school” stores, like K-mart and Sears. The young woman wondered idly why the other woman wasn't at Sears buying her lights. It seemed like she would fit in a Sears much better than the odorous K-mart.

Ginger-beard grabbed his paper bags and headed for the sliding doors. Her basket slid smoothly toward the adolescent boy behind the register. She smiled nervously and the boy rang her items up. She tried to swallow with her suddenly dry mouth, and retrieved her debit card with slightly clammy palms. She slid the piece of plastic.

“I'm sorry miss, your card's been declined.”

Her stomach sank. Shame rekindled in her belly. She knew the cashmere scarf had been too much. “I'm sorry,” she said timidly. “I'll just put the scarf back.”

“No need,” said a new voice, the older woman. “Just ring this up on the same ticket,” she ordered, handing the adolescent her box of lights.

“Oh, no. I couldn't let--”

“I insist. It's the season of giving, isn't it?” the older woman said firmly, but with a warm voice and a smile in her eyes.

I wrote this piece as a reminder for us all what the season of giving is really about. Not the individual gifts, but the acts of kindness -- to all. I guarantee that everyone knows at least one person dealing with the same problem as our protagonist. The season carries different emotions and troubles for us all. I just want to spread a little awareness, and through awareness, kindness.