Lost in the Ivy

(*This is a work of fiction, but is based on a lot of true (k)nighttime stories that have been read.)

“’Twas the night before Christmas…”

“Why ’twas?” the boy interrupts, brows curled.

“It’s a contraction,” the boy's dad dutifully explains, “for it was.”

“Mommy had contractions before I was born?”

“Yes, but, no. This is a different kind of contraction. You take two words – it and was – and you splice them together.”

“I don’t like spices.”

“Not spice – splice.”

“Huh?”

“Let’s try this again. It was the night before Christmas…”

“Why is the knight before Christmas?”

“That’s just how the story starts. It’s the introduction, like once upon a time.”

The boy studies the page of the book with the meticulous eye of a seasoned “I Spy” reader. “No, the knight – where’s the knight?”

“Huh?”

“The knight before Christmas.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No, you said, ‘It was the knight before Christmas?’ Where’s the knight?”

“You mean like a knight with armor and a sword?”

The boy nods, as if his point is obvious and his dad a dunderhead. “Uh-huh.”

“It’s not that kind of knight.”

“Huh?”

“It’s night, as in sleepy-time. Like right now, outside, it’s night. The moon’s out –”

“No, I want a story about a knight!”

“I thought you wanted a story about Christmas?”

“No, I want a knight story.”

“That’s not what –”

“A knight story, Daddy.”

The boy's dad knows he is beaten. He closes the book, reaches for another, and opens it to the first page.

“Once upon a time, there was castle called Camelot…”