A CHRISTMAS STORY

A Christmas Story
By
Blackpercheron

The Christmas season found Gail Green at April’s grave one dreary chilly snowy day. The starkness of the setting, the naked tree branches dusted with new snow, and the misty mauve quality of the hills gave it a surreal quality. Sunlight streamed through the clouds for a brief amount of time before being swallowed by hungry storm clouds. Gail, all bundled up, clutched her arms for warmth. She moved from side-to-side in a tiny shuffle to generate some body heat.

Focusing on April’s grave alone, and tuning out everything else, Gail, addressed April. “I’m so worried, the men came back from New Bern with the windmills, but Eric was not with them.” Gail thought of April, and her grandson she would have had. She would have felt comforted being near the grave, but due to the current circumstances she felt a sense of dread. Gail stifled the growing panic she felt wash over her at what fate could have befallen her son. She didn’t believe those lame excuses she got from the returning men. She thought, somebody isn’t telling me the truth.

She heard a sound, startled; Gail jerked her head up to see a young woman standing near April’s grave. The woman bent down to place some thing near the headstone. Gail felt as if she knew her. Gail spoke, “Did you know April?” The young woman tuned to see Gail. She seemed so familiar to Gail, like she had seen her in the hospital. The woman had on her blue green scrubs, with a light lab jacket. Odd, Gail thought, it’s cold out here. The woman never spoke. Then she left; the snowfall obscured her fading figure trudging back to town. Overcome with curiosity over what the woman placed near April’s grave, Gail noticed something on the crusty snow covered ground. She kneeled to grasp a small shiny metallic object in her hand. She dusted it off with her gloved hands. Gasping, then dropping it, she cried, “it’s Eric’s rattle that I gave to April for the baby.” Gail bent down to pick it up, again. She shoved it in her pocket. Unnerved by her experience in the graveyard, Gail bid April’s grave adieu.

Snow spit from the silver blue sky. Jack frost left a light dusting of new snow accumulated over the old icy layer making for a slippery walking surface. Gail’s thick sheep shearling boots crunched on the snowy ground. She picked her way taking careful steps through the crunchy icy snow on her trip home, through town, worrying about Eric.

She arrived to an empty locked and darkened house. Once inside, she busied herself, lighting a lamp, and getting a fire in the living room hearth going. She boiled some water over the fire in a graniteware camping coffee pot for a hot cup of tea. Rationing some precious cinnamon stick pieces, and cloves she placed that in a tea ball with the loose leaves. Then poured hot water over the concoction in her thick stoneware mug letting it steep for a few minutes.

Gail sat in a chair inhaling its holiday scent as she thought about what had happened. Grasping the mug in her hands, she mulled over what she had seen at April’s grave. She pulled the rattle out of her pocket, then, thought I’m going to put this upstairs in my cedar walk-in closet where it will be safe. She finished her tea. Then, Gail carried an oil lamp upstairs to light her way in the fading daylight. She placed the lamp on a Mission style table near the closet. Then she paused, reaching into her dresser drawer for a Faraday flashlight, shaking it a few times to activate it, lighting her way into the cavernous inky black closet. The flashlight cast shadows amongst the hanging garment bags, and built-in cedar shelves, and cedar drawers. At the threshold, Gail paused taking a deep breath of cedar. It smelled nice in here, she thought, almost seemed comforting to be in here, and normal in some ways. If I could be transported to a different time and place then walk out of here with stuff back to normal with my family intact that would have been great she mused. Then Gail thought, I should look for more woolens. She put the rattle in a sweater drawer in the closet. While rummaging in her cedar closets built in drawers, her hands latched on a metallic object finding another unexpected treasure. Often her boys as children played in her large walk in closets. Her hands grasped a tiny matchbox car. She cradled it in her cupped hands holding it near her face to see it in the diminished light. It glistened in the glow of the lamplight, emitting a soft aura of some kind. Oh, God, it’s Eric’s car. I gave it to him at Christmas. She sank to the floor, clutching it to her breast, sobbing. I can’t take it any more. Please, God bring him home she prayed. She sat there in the cedar closet crying, then fell asleep, dreaming of her boys in happier times as children.

She dreamt and in her twilight state she heard the soft lull of children’s lullaby voices singing a Christmas poem from her youth; Little fairy snowflakes dancing in the flue; old Mr. Santa Claus, what’s keeping you? Twilight and firelight shadows come and go; merry chime of sleight-bells tinkling through the snow.

A voice spoke as clear as day, “Momma, I’m ok. She saw a bright figure of Eric standing there in the cedar closet. He said, “I’m coming home.”

Then she woke up to Johnston saying her name.