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Christmas Morning
I had been dreaming. She was pretty and said all the right
things and made all the right moves. But suddenly there was a screech from
outside my dream and a weight crashed into my no longer sleeping chest.
“Daddy! Daddy! DADDY! Santa was here! Santa was here!” in
two simultaneous voices, one directly over my head and one slightly to the
left.
My eyes fluttered open to see Meghan, my 7-year-old, jumping
up and down next to the bed, a huge smile on her face, and James, 5, with a similar
smile hugging me.
James rolled off the bed and nearly onto his sister and they
both grabbed my left hand which was outside the blankets, pulling hard.
“Come see!” they screeched in excited unison and I let
myself be pulled out of the warm bed and into the early morning chill.
The kids alternately pulled my hand and ran ahead a few
steps out the bedroom, down the hall, and into the living room. Under the small
blue spruce decorated with a mixture of store-bought ornaments and
pre-school/elementary art ornaments, was exactly what Meghan and James had
asked Santa for – a gleaming red fire truck with flashing lights and a Molly
Pitcher doll.
James immediately had to show me how the lights flashed as
he pushed the truck across the floor toward the kitchen, making siren noises
and terrifying the cat who was just trying to watch the festivities from a
corner. Simultaneously Meghan was explaining how Molly was awake and ready to
help “chase the Redcoats!”
I didn’t say anything; I didn’t have to. The two of them
raced through their imaginary adventures, giving me a continuous, loud, and
excited, minute by minute detail. I dutifully caught the eye of first one then
the other and nodded and smiled as they raced through their events. A smile,
much smaller than theirs, but with the wistful remembrances of Christmases long
gone, played over my face.
Once the first burst of activity subsided both of them
asked, hopefully, if they could open “just ONE more present?!”
The answer, as they knew it would be, was no, they had to
wait, and wouldn’t they like some waffles?
After the obligatory, and momentary, vocalization of
disappointment, both eagerly agreed to waffles. James raced into the kitchen
first, yelling, “I’ll get the eggs!” while Meghan quickly pulled out the small
stepstool while exclaiming, “I’ll get the mix!”
Moving more slowly, I cautioned James to be careful with the
eggs and Meghan to be careful climbing and pulled the battered waffle maker
from its perch high above the stove. It was a Christmas tradition, started with
my first married Christmas, to have waffles before opening gifts. That memory,
flashing through as I gripped the waffle iron, just me and Denise in our tiny
first apartment, caused a hitch in my throat.
Almost before I noticed the catch in my throat my attention
was drawn to the drama near the fridge as James struggled to pull the egg
carton out without toppling the
container of leftover rice that
rested above. He, of course, despite his best effort, toppled the rice onto the
floor. Fortunately the lid stayed tight and his grip on the eggs was true.
Triumphantly he handed me the eggs and raced back out of the kitchen to snatch
up the fire truck once again. I stooped to put the rice back in the fridge and
close the door while Meghan jumped off the stool and showered me with a light
dusting of waffle mix shaken from the box with her impact with the floor.
She carefully placed the box on the counter next to the
waffle maker and followed her brother into the living room, to swoop Molly
Pitcher up in her arms and carry her swiftly to meet “everybody” in her room.
Cancer had taken Denise physically from us, but I still saw
her every day, in Meghan and James and the traditions we had made in the few
years we had had together. A tear formed in my eye, as it did every year, and I
turned to the task at hand, hearing the squeals of joy from the other rooms,
sad for what I/we had lost yet overwhelmingly happy for what I had.
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