You Never Know What Christmas Will Bring

You Never Know What Christmas Will Bring

By: Bikerider

The tiny, hand-carved, wooden train fit nicely in the palm of her wrinkled hand. Marge held the small ornament out between two fingers and watched the gold sequins covering the wooden train's wheels sparkle in the light as it slowly turned on its red ribbon. Gently curling her fingers around the wooden train, Marge sighed and held it to her chest. Sadness sagged her shoulders as she thought about that night so long ago.

Marge and Harold had bought the miniature ornament in Germany, forty-years-ago, when Harold was serving in the army. They lived together in a small house in a quaint German village outside the base where Harold was assigned. Driving an old red Volkswagen Beetle they bought for two-hundred-dollars, they traveled every chance they could. On a cold December night Harold drove the small car into the town of Nuremburg where he and Marge checked into a hotel.

After checking in they walked, hand-in-hand, to an outdoor market. Fresh-cut pine boughs studded with colorful lights draped the vendor's booths, filling the air with the fragrance of the forest. Snow crunched under their feet as they leisurely strolled from one booth to another, sampling warm wine and fresh baked sweets. They stopped at a vendor selling Christmas ornaments and found the pretty, little wooden train.

Marge pushed the thought away and, breathing in the scent of pine, she reached up to a prominent spot in the middle of the tree and slid the ribbon over a branch, then stepped back and sighed.

"That little wooden train was Harold's favorite Christmas ornament," she mumbled to the empty room. The little ornament reflected the colorful lights from its perch on the end of a pine branch.

...

With only one week left until Christmas, the first since Harold had passed, Marge decided to take her son's advice and put up a small tree. She wasn't going to bother with the celebration this year—there were too many memories—Christmas was Harold's favorite holiday of the year. Even last year when he was so ill, he was still excited about the decorations and gifts, just like he'd always been. Celebrating without him just won't be much fun, she had told herself. And it will just make me sad. But her son had urged her to put up a few decorations; he knew how much his mother enjoyed the holidays.

"Put up your small tree," he had encouraged her. "It might help you to feel a little festive."

"I'll put up the tree," she had replied to Frank, "but I'm not sure it will make me feel festive."

Her son had smiled at her and said, "Remember what you used to tell me when I was young and Christmas was coming?" His eyes twinkled with the thought.

"Remind me, sweetheart," she said, "I'm getting old and my memory isn't what it once was."

"When I asked you about Christmas and what presents I was going to get," he smiled, "you'd always say, 'You never know what Christmas will bring.'"

"Yes, I do remember." She had smiled, kissed her son's cheek, and promised that she would put up a tree.



Sighing with the memory, Marge bent down next to the tree and, holding the plug snugly between her trembling fingers, she put the prongs into the wall socket. She turned and took a breath as the tree lights shimmered above her. She stood, took a step back, and thought, Harold would have loved this tree. Her lips curled into a sad smile as she saw the little wooden train softly lit between two branches.

...

On Christmas morning Marge woke early and put the kettle on to heat. Her friend, Maryann, was coming over to join her this morning so she put out two holiday tea cups and saucers—the ones with the snowmen painted on them—then went to the tree and plugged it in. The strings of lights twinkled brightly along the fragrant branches, and the little wooden train slowly twirled on its red ribbon as something Harold used to say drifted into her thoughts. "A Christmas tree always looks magical on Christmas morning." Marge smiled and gazed at the tree. "Yes, Harold," she whispered, "it certainly is magical."

Through the frosted windows she saw Maryann coming up the walkway. Marge opened the door and stepped aside as her friend, grumbling about the cold, stepped in and walked into the kitchen. The high-pitched screech of a vehicle's brakes pulled Marge's gaze out to the street where a large, brown delivery truck stopped at the curb. Before she could close the door a young man bounded from the truck and walked briskly to her door.

"Mrs. Ellington? The young man looked at the packet in his gloved hand. "Mrs. Marge Ellington?"

"Yes, I'm Marge Ellington," she replied. "How can I help you?"

The young man handed the tan packet to her. "Merry Christmas," he said, then turned and walked away.

"Merry Christmas," she said absently, her eyes focused on the package in her hands. When she looked up the man was already stepping back into the truck. Marge shrugged and closed the door.

"What's that?" Maryann asked when Marge walked into the kitchen.

"Some kind of envelope," she replied.

"I can see that!" Maryann said. "What's inside?"

"I don't know."

"Well sit down and open it up. It's Christmas, so it must be a surprise." She rubbed her hands together expectantly.

A smile dimpled Marge's face as she said, "A surprise? What on earth could it be?"

The legs of the chair scraped against the tile floor as Marge pulled it out and sat down at the table. Her shaking fingers slid under the edge of the flap and pried it open. Inside she found a long colorful Christmas card and pulled it out.

Printed on the front in flowing script were the words Merry Christmas! She opened the card and a folded sheet of paper fell onto her lap. Unfolding it, Marge saw that it was a typewritten letter. The letterhead announced it was from the "Go Everywhere" Travel Company. She tossed it aside and turned to Maryann.

"It's just an advertisement for a travel company."

"It's just as well," Maryann said, "at our age surprises can be dangerous."

Marge laughed softly and dropped the letter on the table.

"Wait a minute," Maryann said, her eyes narrowed. "An advertisement? Hand delivered on Christmas morning?" She stood and came around the table and looked over her friend's shoulder. "Are you sure it's only an advertisement?"

"Yes," she said. "But that does seem odd, doesn't it?" Marge picked up the letter. Her rimless glasses reflected the overhead light, and as she read her brows arched into her furrowed forehead. Tears beaded the corners of her blue eyes.

"What is it, Marge?" Maryann asked softly and moved closer to her friend.

"It's from Harold..." Marge swallowed and blinked.

"Harold? What are you talking about? That's not possible." Maryann leaned over her friend's shoulder and began to read along with Marge. When they finished reading they sat in silence, the humming refrigerator filling the air between them.

Suddenly the whistling tea kettle snapped Marge and Maryann from their silent reverie. Without a word, Marge slowly stood and shuffled to the stove. She turned off the heat, silencing the kettle, then picked it up and walked back to the table.

The scent of oranges rose from their cups, as Marge filled them with steaming water. The two friends sat in silence, sipping hot tea from the delicate porcelain cups; both lost in their private thoughts.

...

"It came early this morning," Marge said into the phone. Her son had called to let her know he would be coming by to pick her up, and she told him about the letter—and about the tickets—from Harold.

"Yes, I'm sure," she said. "It's a gift from your father. Two plane tickets to Madrid." She paused briefly then said, her voice hinting at impatience, "Yes, of course, Spain...it's a place I've wanted to visit ever since I was a little girl." She looked at the tickets again just to make sure they were real.

"And you're sure they're from dad?" Frank asked. And then with a voice filled with concern, "Are you okay, mom?"

She drew out each word. "Yes. Frank. I'm. Fine." She sighed and then continued. "And there's a note written in his own handwriting attached to the letter from the travel agency. He must have arranged for them before he...before he passed."

"Two tickets? Wait a minute mom..." Frank's voice trailed off.

"It's not what you think, Frank." Marge said. "The note says that one ticket is for me, a Christmas present, and one ticket is to share with a friend so I won't have to go alone." She paused and looked across the room at Maryann's wide smile. "Your father and I both knew he wasn't going to...to see another Christmas. So you see, he didn't intend the second ticket to be for himself."

"I'm surprised he thought to do this when he was so ill."

"So am I. But there's more." She brought the letter up to her eyes and squinted. "He says that he wants me to be happy, and this is a first step toward me doing that." There was silence on the phone as her eyes sparkled with pooling tears. Then, in a voice just above a whisper she read. "He also says he'll be waiting for me to join him when the time is right, but until then, he wants me to live life to the fullest." She gently bit her trembling lower lip.

"That's very sweet, mom."

Her tears spotted the letter she held in her shaking hands. "Yes, your father was a sweet man."

"Yes mom, he was. But even so, I'm just so surprised by this. I guess you were right all those years."

"What do you mean?"

"Remember? 'You never know what Christmas will bring.'"

Marge wiped away a tear and asked, "What time are you picking me up?"

...

After she hung up the phone Marge walked to the tree and saw the little pastel wooden train hanging from its red ribbon on the end of a branch. She thought about the night, so long ago, when she and Harold bought the little ornament as they strolled through the outdoor market. Only this time she smiled with the memory. It filled her heart with joy.

She reached up and touched the miniature wooden train with the tip of her finger and watched it sway back and forth on its branch, the golden sequins reflecting the colorful lights of the tree. "You never know what Christmas will bring," she mumbled. And then with a smile that reached into her eyes she said, "Thank you, Harold."

Word Count: 1996