A sprig of bright green mistletoe sits above the doorway. A disconsolate man sits below in a white undershirt, head in hands, wondering what went wrong.

In another house, inside away from the chilling north wind there lays a beautiful woman with tear streaked cheeks staring at the ceiling, wondering what went wrong.

Outside the wind is indeed cold. A skift of snow covers the ground. The empty trees along the street contain lights which flicker their glow into the night air. The houses on the street appear warm and inviting.

Somewhere a family is reuniting. Somewhere lovers hold each other. But not here. The man in the white undershirt looks up and realizes he is sitting beneath the mistletoe. This angers him, so he gets up and goes to turn on the TV. The television is no help. His thoughts run to her.

Somewhere a mother smiles at her daughter. Somewhere an innocent girl sings Christmas Carols. But not here. The beautiful woman wraps herself in blankets but feels no warmth. More tears come. After a moment she decides to go and look through his old love letters to her. Their love WAS true. Their love WAS genuine.

In his living room he remembers her soft brown eyes, the curve of her neck, her laugh. He DID love her. He DID care for her.

She remembered back. Why had she demanded so much? Who was she kidding? Only herself. He could never be perfect.

He recalled earlier in the evening. Why had he said that? Why hadn't he forgiven her? She meant well. "I'm such a selfish bastard!" he thought.

She realized her mistake and began to feel better.

He picked up the phone, praying she would answer.

She did.

The sprig of mistletoe will come in handy once again tonight.

LETTERS FROM READERS