Of Ghosts and Angels
Night comes softly as snow falls, covering the gray features of her street, first frosted with lace, ultimately nestled under a deepening blanket of whitest ermine. Streetlights shed beams turned silver in the snow light, casting blue shadows. Even the ever present sirens that howl at night in her neighborhood like ravenous wolves against the cold, are hushed.
She is so small, too young to get tucked in for the night alongside such grown up worries as whether the rent will get paid. She knows the word “utilities,” though she does not know what it means. Despite its rather helpful sound, she has come to believe it is something sinister that may leave her home without heat or light. Her beloved grandmother takes on these fierce opponents, keeping the little girl as safe as she can, though it leaves her visibly exhausted. The child is certain that is why so many times she catches a glimpse of her grandmother, head drooping, eyes closed, lips barely moving, as if in a dream.
On this night as the girl drifts into the arms of sleep, her features come to rest in their innocence. She will awaken very early the next day, like so many other children. They, however, will erupt from their beds to go pounce on parents still sleeping from their late night adventures playing St. Nick. What will she find when she awakens?
Sunrise glows on the horizon, kissing a white sky lush with the promise of Christmas snow. Retreating shadows draw back sleep’s coverlet to gently rouse her to greet this special morning. Sitting up, she rubs her eyes with a tiny fist. She remembers. A smile rises across her face, the ever bright wonder of childhood’s hope dawns in her large and beautiful eyes.
Who is she?
She is a child who comes to live in my imagination each year about this time. I think of her and welcome my own ghosts of Christmas past. I was recently reminded of a lean year’s end when my children were young, a long ago memory revisited, this time through the eyes of my daughter. What I remembered as the painful shame of not having enough money to provide for my children and still give them much of a Christmas, she saw through the eyes of a little girl. My child recalled a singular gift from that year, its fruition due in no small part to the ingenuity and creativity of an aunt, a memorial to the worlds within worlds of a child’s imagination.
“I confess that Christmas feels different this year...”
Twenty years into this century finds me contending with the past, making peace where I can. I confess that Christmas feels different this year despite my efforts to welcome its advent, to sustain cherished traditions. The lights on my tree and front porch faithfully flicker to life each day just before sundown. I play music of the season, searching the words and melodies for familiar comfort. I decorate the house seeking meaning in the red and green, the silver and gold. This year, however, there will be no child travelling to spend the holidays with us. Family and friends, who in other years gathered to celebrate, will, at best, join the few of us who will still congregate via electronic means. Nevertheless, I have made my lists: groceries to buy, cookies to bake, gifts to purchase, treats to make, and I check them twice, not looking for the naughty and nice, but for whatever or whoever my aging brain may have missed.
As in other years, my lists have come to include the Angel Tree, an opportunity to pay it forward by helping a parent give Christmas gifts to their child. In the past there was a literal tree covered in tags bearing simple items beyond the reach of a parent’s resources, plucked from a festooned branch by those possessed of the wherewithal to give. In recent years the “tree” has grown increasingly internet driven, most especially in this year of social distancing and virtual contacts. I miss the little tag, the feel of it in my hand, like a tiny elven talisman to guide me in my quest.
I always try to provide for a little girl of 5-8 years of age. Those were hard years for me as a single parent when my children were that small, but the joy of anticipation in their eyes as Christmas morning dawned, was the treasure I most longed to find beneath the tree. I yearn for those times now, knowing they live on only in reminiscence. Perhaps it is because I wish for a grandchild. Perhaps it is simply time lending a kinder patina to such memories.
To fill the void I wander stores with the image of a little girl in my heart. I picture her exploring the recesses of an art kit, delighting in colorful books, laughing at a stuffed kitty. I gather the items with care, savoring the connections to the past. I lower my eyes as I wait in line straining to hear in my imagination her cry of delight, wreathed in giggles. At the foot of a tall tree dressed in blue, gilded in silver, I deliver my offerings, trusting the gifts will find their intended recipient, to be wrapped by them and given to their child.
I find myself already looking ahead to next year, hoping to find there what will be missing as we celebrate in 2020, yet ashamed to rush the season. I cannot deny, I want a house full of loved ones and friends, laughter and music, rejoicing in the giving of, not just gifts, but love. As always, I want what I want. Still, recalling my little girl, and her grandmother, I am chastened to remember the season is less about what one wants than what one gives. The ghost of Christmas present parts his robe to reveal all the parents and grandparents that I do not know, who like me, know what it is to not have enough, to need others to share, so that the children they love might have a day of delight, too.
There is no way to know, of course, what ghosts of future Christmases hold. To savor this year, even in its strangeness, to honor the best of the past, seems the only way forward. To remember the gift that started it all, to see it through the light in a child’s hope-filled eyes, is perhaps the best way to remember, to cherish, to share the joy that is Christmas.
“What is Christmas? It is tenderness for the past, courage for the present, hope for the future. It is a fervent wish that every cup may flow eternal, and that every path may lead to peace.” —Agnes Pharo
