Every year, Henri and his wife give me the same thing for Christmas: a big bottle of a fine single malt. He knows what I want and what I like. That’s the hallmark of a great friend.
I’m a simple guy; I think you know that, by now. I don’t have much in the way of material riches, and I don’t care. I measure wealth by a warm shower and a smoke on my balcony looking out at the city. Friendship; love; a good case to chew on—these are the treasures I seek.
A gift, to me, is anything I didn’t expect or something I wouldn’t dare hope for—being exonerated of the evidence tampering charges; finding my old friend from the street who disappeared when I was fourteen. Jean-Paul telling me he's ready to get off the streets.
If I had to choose between getting rid of the charges against me, or getting JP off the streets, I’d pick the latter. If I were a praying man, I’d be on my knees asking for that, right now. Or whispering into Papa Noël’s ear, like Henri's children do.
Petit papa Noël
Quand tu descendras du ciel
Avec des jouets par milliers
N'oublie pas mon petit fils.
