"The Ornament"

The ornament, it hung through the years; through all the laughter and all the tears.

We made it together, one wintery day; me and my son. His seriousness of the matter, why it surprised everyone.

Together, we cut and we glued. The eyes of the snowman, they must be just right. We both shouted in glee and cheered with delight as we did, we did, we did glue them just right.

His tiny, soft tender hands, they cut and they cut, 'til out came the top of the jolly 'ole soul.

I look back at that snapshot adhered in my head, years later as I silently watch those once tiny, tender hands. How they grew and matured through each passing year; transformed now into a pair of calloused, rough pair. I pause briefly and marvel at those now skilled hands. I wonder down far beneath, buried in blustery years, are those two tiny hands, once so tender and soft living and breathing behind the rough cloth of layers of skin masking the thought. Do they appear every year as the ornament we hung?

The years how they flew past and inches, and inches of my once tiny son, they grew too, 'til the ornament we hung with such care seemed not to matter as the tiny pitter, patter of his feet roared out the house and down the street.

Had Christmas become a thing of our past? The presents I chose and saved for throughout the year, they seemed not to bring as much holiday cheer.

I hung the ornament as I had done each year on our now plastic tree, I stepped back and remembered each Christmas passed.

A tear appeared in each of my eyes as I remembered that day, with such vivid detail; the things we said; the carols we both sung as we cut and we pasted our little snowman. Was it I, the only one now who cared? Am I the only keeper of those dear treasured days?

The ornament it dangled on the green plastic limb. Slowly, it twirled and brushed through the glittering lighted green limb. That was when I noticed the tear on Mr. Frosty's tiny white beard.

Thud went the sound to startle me so. "Mom, I'm home," came the bellowing tone. I smiled and grinned in sheer delight! I winked at Mr. Frosty, our once tiny son, appeared at the door in a rush of cold air. Covered in Christmas snow he scorned with dismay. "Mom, you do way too much. The doctors, they told you, you must rest your heart."

A soft smile came to my face; my son standing there, so tall and virile. I lightly touch Mr. Frosty's right eye as I say to my son, "Promise, promise, make this one, this one, one day with your son. And, cherish it, cherish it, on each Christmas day!

"Mr Frosty, Mom?" I hear my son say. My grin widens and spreads throughout my whole face. He did, he did, he did recall each Christmas Holiday! Buried down far, deep was his tiny, kind heart.

"Okay, Mom," he scowled as his calloused, rough thumb touched briefly my arm.

Life as we know it, goes that one day. We so fondly call Christmas a holiday. In its' place on that one magical day, appears all the love we meant to share on each day we had lived in that previous year.