Week 14: A Christmas Angel

by Nicola
(South Australia)

It was Christmas Eve and, as always, darkness descended. She brought the old tree from its box in the shed and blew it free of dust. She always felt like such a grouch. She tried to hide it so as not to spoil the joy of those around her. But as the day grew longer, her smiles became more forced, her heart more empty.

She remembered the Christmases from her English childhood. Days of mittens and wellington boots, where breath steamed and froze on the window panes, forming magical lace like patterns. Red noses on children, logs on the fire, the men smoking pipes, the women rushing around in colourful aprons and silly hats. There were always stockings stuffed with fruits, nuts and small gifts from Santa hanging beside the fireplace. The big presents, the ones from the family were all wrapped in brightly coloured paper beneath the tree, with eager children sitting cross legged and wide eyed before it. Eyes glancing to the clock on the mantelpiece every few minutes, trying not to burst with excitement, struggling to be patient until the grandparents arrived. Grandad always gave out the presents and told a bad joke or two. Everyone always had a slice of fruitcake, baked with love by Grandma; coated in layers of marzipan and icing, with a little plaster Santa and reindeer on top. Christmas albums from Bing Crosby and Elvis Presley always played on the record player. The lounge room floor was quickly covered in torn strips and screwed up balls of wrapping paper. Mum patiently picking them up and checking carefully for missing pieces, before scrunching them into the bin.

Now Christmas just wasn't the same. There was no holly, no ivy, no cute little red berries on the bushes. The red noses and antlers were strapped to Ford Falcons. The only steam was from the hot sweat of bodies, wilting in the midday sun like water starved lilies. Coloured lights lit up every window in every store, hairless reindeer, contorted from metal, powder coated filled shop windows. Christmas trees like hers, now pulled from boxes in the shed, duct tape unwrapped, vacuumed, stretched, their wire forms pulled into the required shaped for the day were silver, white, sometimes green, but all were made of steel, plastic and tinsel. She missed the scent of freshly cut conifer, the needles, brown and dying embedded in the carpet, never seeming to rot, always finding their way to the surface to prickle an unwary bare foot, years later. Boughs bent around presents, instead of present laid beneath love laden boughs.

As she grew up and had a family of her own, she used to enjoy roasting the turkey inside, taking pleasure in making the stuffing from fresh ingredients. Baking the Christmas pudding weeks before, drowning it in brandy and watching the awestruck faces of the children as flames of blue danced over its surface. The adults would take thick slices of homemade brandy butter, whilst the kids filled their bowls with great dollops of iced-cream. The tables were always pulled together, their differences cloaked by freshly ironed crisp white table cloths; crystal glasses, crackers and plates piled high with steaming food.

But now the kids had all grown up and left home. They never got together as a group anymore. No one wanted minced pies, nor Christmas pud. They were too full for sausage rolls or turkey. Maybe a few prawns, a small piece of fish with a little salad on the side. There was no need to put the tables together. The kitchen table was more than big enough. Surplus dining chairs, stayed cloaked in dust, stacked neatly in the shed.

The tree still took centre stage in all its glory, but no presents laid in wait beneath its tinsel heavy boughs. It was a day of sitting and waiting. Waiting for them to pop by for the odd half hour, pull a cracker or two before getting back on the road for the cursory visit to the next family member. Adults making polite visits to one another, each wishing they could get it over and done with before relaxing over a few drinks at their respective houses or catching up with friends.

But most of all she missed her family overseas. She knew her brothers would call. They always did. But her eldest son had been gone for years now, far away, living his own life, raising his own family. Missing his presence was the hardest part.

"The tree looks great love." Her husband hugged her warmly. "Beautiful as always."

"It's missing an angel. There's nothing on top."

He pecked her on the forehead. "It doesn't matter. C'mon, why don't you make up some of your stuffing? I know we're only having a turkey roll this year, but I still want a bit of my wife in Christmas."

Smiling at his understanding, she threw herself into grating oranges and chopping walnuts whilst her husband vacuumed something in the shed. A while later, she heard it.

"Is that Bing Crosby?"

"I found an old record player and a Christmas album in your grandparents' old collection. I thought it would make you smile."

The hug she gave him was interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. "It must be one of the kids." She smiled and the two of them raced to the front door.

A man and a woman stood there smiling, holding a chuckling baby.

"Hi Mum, Hi Dad Merry Christmas! Meet your grandson. He's a perfect little angel."