I closed my eyes. When I opened them, I say my family all together around the Christmas tree. I was thankful for what I had and would never be ungrateful again. It had begun in English class, with Mr. Wipe, an old eccentric schoolmaster with a stringy white beard and long, wrinkly fingers. They say he uses them to grasp any child who dares to talk during his class. He would come up with stranger topics for English than you could ever dream of. And if you didn't listen carefully to every word, you would miss out on the activities completely. So, as usual, my ears were alert, taking in everything, my eyes focused on this mad creature leaping around the classroom, throwing chalk to catch attention. This was a lead-up to something bizarre, something out-of-this-world. Today he uncurled a long finger and placed it on the world map in our classroom. Then he gave us a crazy grin as his whole face lit up.

"Ghana!'' he shrieked, and then went off into hysterics. The class looked up, but as this happened so often, no one was surprised. "Pen-pals! You shall all write! Here is a list of names!'' He went on in his mad way to tell us that Ghana was a country in Africa and he had written to an old friend of his, a school teacher, and together, they had arranged for their students to correspond with each other as an English project. That was how it all started.

How do you write to a kid in Africa? What do you say? When I got home I sat down at my desk, switched on the lamp, reached into a drawer, and pulled out a pencil and some writing paper. The paper was lavender-coloured with a picture of Goofy wearing a hula skirt in the top left-hand corner. A palm tree is in the background with an ocean stretching across the top of the paper. I love this paper as it could almost have been made for me. Lavender is my favourite colour, Goofy my favourite Disney character and the palm tree and the ocean represent my home, Bermuda. Only, it would have been more perfect if Goofy's lei had been yellow instead of orange. After many drafts, this is what I came up with: Dear Isha Selassi, I am a girl who lives on a beautiful island called Bermuda. I don't suppose you have ever visited Bermuda as you live so far away? Let me tell you about it. Bermuda is surrounded by beautiful walls on all sides which reach down to the sand on the bottom of the ocean an up through the clouds. No one has ever seen the very top before. Exotic plants and animals grow and live on this wall. Fish swim through it. But the wall is nothing compared to the enchantment inside. Crystal lakes, magical forests with enchanted inhabitants, wizards and witches, castles fit for kings and queens, but best of all, it is Christmas all year round. I hope you will write back to me. Yours, Melissa Walter. Okay, so I like creative writing. Anyway, the kid will never come to Bermuda so she'll never know what Bermuda is really like. I mean, apart from the lack of malls and amusement facilities, Bermuda is the same as any other boring place in the world. It wasn't long before I received a letter from Isha. Dear Melissa, I received your letter a few days ago. I never knew a place like Bermuda could exist. Whenever I close my eyes, I see the kings and queens and enchanted forests. It is all like a dream. What do you look like? Tell me about your family and your life when you write back to me. I will tell you about my home and myself though I am afraid it shall bore you terribly. I am ten years old and I live in the gold mining region of Ghana with my mother, father, older brother and two younger sisters. I do not see my father and brother very often because they are usually up and out by dawn and do not come home until late at night. They do this to earn as much money as they can. Sometimes after school -- which is only three hours long, I go out to work to earn what I can. The mine will take anyone of any age though it is illegal. My family and I live in a small, one room hut which is very damp at this time of year. I know you are probably sick of listening to my troubles. In the letter you wrote to me you mentioned something called Christmas. When you write back would you tell me what it is? I would really appreciate it. Yours, Isha. P.S. I really like your writing paper. I read the letter over and over. What a terrible life Isha must live. I wished that I could do something to help. Well, I'll keep writing her. Maybe she's lonely.

My letters can keep her company. As I started to write, I found that the words flowed from my pen. Dear Isha, You asked me in your letter to tell you what I looked like. I have long, curly, auburn hair, bright blue eyes and a perfect nose. I live in a large, pink house on the top of a hill with my mother and father. Below us is an enchanted forest. On either side of our house is a tall palm tree. I wish you could see my room and my shelves and shelves of elaborate toys. Or my wardrobe filled with one hundred outfits. I was surprised when you wrote that you did not know what I meant by Christmas.

Christmas is a holiday we celebrate here in Bermuda. That morning at dawn, the young princes ride into the Forest of Firs where it snows all year round. The princes choose the finest trees which they cut down to bring back to all the ladies. The ladies and their daughters then decorate the tree with ornaments of different colours and wrap snow-like material around the tree. When this is done, the family will go and eat a wonderful dinner until they can barely move. Afterwards, they exchange expensive gifts. One year I was given a dress worth four hundred dollars. I am sorry that you are having money problems. I don't think you should work illegally, but I know you are doing it to help your family. Write back as soon as you can! Yours, Melissa. As I twirled my mousy brown hair, I thought of Isha and the letters I had written to her. I thought of the Melissa Walter with the curly auburn hair and blue eyes, the room and the shelves of toys -- an only child with two devoted parents. Then I thought of another Melissa Walter but with straight brown hair, brown eyes and a pointed nose and the lies that this Melissa had told to another child because she had been ashamed of who she was and what she looked like. The cramped two-bedroom cottage in a noisy neighbourhood where all the houses are close together was her home. Her parents worked long hours for this so they didn't have much time and money to spend on their three children. Holidays were scarce, unlike some of her friends at school with their luxurious homes and expensive trips to exotic locations. Suddenly the door flew open and a child stormed in. "Missy, let me use the desk. You always get to use it and I don't.'' "I'm writing a letter. Let me finish my sixteenth page.'' I pretended to write a letter. "You're lying. You finished your letter and sent it off yesterday. Mom!'' A muffled voice came from downstairs. I knew my sister was right. I gathered up my things and departed from the desk to my bed. Then the door burst open again. My older sister and some of her friends came into the room talking and laughing. I managed to squeeze past them and out of the door without being seen. I went downstairs to find my mother hanging tinsel around the living room. She was so busy she didn't see me. It was a while before another letter came for me. Then one day this arrived: Dear Melissa, I am Isha's mother and I am writing to tell you that something terrible has happened. I don't know if you know this but Isha worked in a mine after school to earn money for the family. About a week ago, there was an accident while she was working there. She was severely injured and we are not sure if she will recover as we cannot afford a doctor. I wanted to tell you how grateful I am to you for writing to her. She has been happier since you both started exchanging letters. A special celebration interested her extremely. Christmas is a festival this family knows little about. I just thought I'd let you know what was going on as you two are such good friends and tell each other everything. Yours Sincerely, Maran Selassi. I cried silently as I read the letter and remembered all my lies about Christmas. I had made out that Christmas was like a second birthday when you were given a lot of presents. But I knew it meant much more than that. Behind all the mistletoe and holly, there was much, much more. Christmas was a time for families to be together and be thankful for what they had, not what they were about to get. It was the time of year to remember baby Jesus in the manger, oh how I had led my friend astray. I would have to try and fix my mistakes. Good friends wouldn't lie to each other. I had been deceitful before, I couldn't change that. The only thing I could do now was to tell her the truth. But Isha was injured. She might never be able to write to me again, she might but want to, but at least I would have tried. This time the words would not come so easily. I couldn't say just anything. I had to be honest. As I sealed the letter I was sure I would never hear word of Isha again. The weeks passed slowly. The castles and enchanted forests, the lies, faded into a forgotten nightmare. Only I couldn't forget it. It's strange to think that one day's daydream could become a nightmare which lasted weeks. It was the week of Christmas and I had begun to lose all hope. Then on Christmas eve, a letter arrived. Dear Melissa, I am starting to recover from my accident. I have also received your last letter. I was surprised when I read the contents of it however. I read it over and over. You deceived me but I forgive you as you had the courage to own up. Christmas sounds even more beautiful than you at first told me. I now know that everyone can celebrate Christmas, no matter where you live, whether you are rich or poor. Everyone can share this wonderful feeling you told me about, not only at Christmas but all year round. Thank you for everything. I hope we can keep in touch forever. Your friend, Isha. PHOTO Elisa Gilsenan