Sweet Tooth

 

He knew he was a murderer. He knew he deserved his sentence. His life was lost, just like the store owner he blew away during the robbery. His days were filled with orange and a schedule the guards made sure everyone kept. When his cage opened at dawn, he presented himself. Every morning, he walked with the rest to feed in a large mess hall. He returned to his cell. He ate lunch at the same time. He wandered the yard at the same time. Over and over, dinner met the 6 o’clock hour. Every evening he sat alone, in his cell, reading and thinking and regretting until lockdown. Christmas never held much meaning for him. He never really had the kind of family that cherished each other. He was lucky to have survived in light of this fact. He became a monster in order to do so. He gave up control and functioned by instinct. He thought back to that Christmas Eve, all those years ago, and to the victim he left lying on the floor of the corner store. His greed, his presumption found a family man dead and all for a few dollars and a bottle of rum. He made so many mistakes. If he could go back, things would be different. He laid there all alone pretending Christmas Carols were playing somewhere in the distance. He thought of his life, of Christmas, of how unfair it was that he continued when an innocent was the one to pay the price. For a moment, just for a moment, he found himself like every other person. He was dreaming while awake. Again, he heard the music sounding softly in his head. It called for peace on earth and goodwill to men.
 
“The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me,
Because the Lord has anointed me
To proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
To proclaim freedom for the captives
And release from darkness for the prisoners”
(Isaiah 61:1, NIV)
 
He pined for 8 years not knowing her. The last time he saw his daughter, she was newborn. Pictures would have been better than nothing but nothing was all he had. He knew he would never know her. At least there was a part of him that mattered, that made even a little difference in the world. With a King James Bible pressed with one hand against his chest, he prayed over and over for salvation and redemption and forgiveness. Three people died the night he started that fire. Revenge and greed weigh heavy on many. It was the closed circuit cameras that gave him away. They sealed his fate and then some. He did not fret over his past mistakes. There was no guilt, no contrition, just a longing for something he would never have. He knew long ago that her mother would never bring her to see him. The child was a stranger to him and to her, he would be a stranger. With Jesus in his front pocket, he found absolution despite any lingering remorse. He convinced himself he was free but he wasn’t free. The very idea of his daughter haunted him. Every Christmas Eve was the same for him now. After lockdown, he sat on the floor and he played scriptures over in his head. He always felt better knowing that God understood. Jesus was literally the only friend he had left. There were no wise men. No angels came to call. There wasn’t even a star in the sky to guide him. As he crawled into bed, he was overcome. If only the tears he cried now had hindered him then. There was no consolation, only a festering sore that would never heal. He would never kiss her goodnight. He would never wish her Merry Christmas or give her a gift. He would never watch her decorate a Christmas tree. Never kept playing in his head like a tune that will not quit. It was a prison within a prison and even Christmas couldn’t grant him reprieve.
 
“It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick.
I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners.”
(Mark 2:17b, NIV)
 
The guards decided that Mail Monday would be saved for Christmas Tuesday this year. Those packages and parcels waited all though Christmas Eve. After breakfast on Christmas morn, the sentries handed them out. Some got many and a few got none. It brought a little cheer to a weary place. The contents of each delivery varied depending on the prisoner and the sins they had committed. Less violent conditions met more cards, more gifts and less condemnation. The hardcore inmates got barely anything, if anything at all. The guards collected donations for almost a month before Christmas Day. As the masses sat regretting their breakfast, one by one, guard after guard, handed out a gift for each captive. The peppermint-flavoured red and white candy canes were more vessels of compassion than prison bars made of sugar and mint. It was a tiding of comfort and joy in a harsh and empty world. The smallest act of mercy is more Christmas than any monumental present or grand gesture. To know that someone sees you, someone recognizes you, is one of the greatest gifts to be shared and opened. Some tossed the candy away, scoffing the messenger in spite of the message. For some, it was the only gift they had received all year. .    
 
“Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it. Continue to remember those in prison as if you were together with them in prison, and those who are mistreated as if you yourselves were suffering.” (Hebrews 13: 2-3, NIV)
 
He sat there as the mail was handed out. He got nothing. He refused to take the candy cane so a guard placed it in front of him. It disappeared rather quickly. All the mustered joy did not find him. He was as cold as the act that had brought him. He felt nothing. He needed for nothing. He wasn’t even really there. He held no hope, no purpose and no love. He scoffed as prisoners in a jail wished each other “Merry Christmas.” Life had left him no choice. He did what he had to do. Nothing more, nothing less. He didn’t suffer in silence.  He didn’t suffer. There was no redemption, only hellfire waited for him now. Fuck Christmas and the God it came in on.   
 
 “If your hand causes you to stumble, cut it off. It is better for you to enter life maimed than with two hands to go into hell, where the fire never goes out.” (Mark 9:43, NIV)
 
 Christmas had brought him no peace. He laid on the cot waiting for lockdown, staring at her face in the ceiling. A single candy cane and a pillow were his only consolation. Over and over again, it chased him. It wasn’t his want or his need that played with his mind. He had never once considered the child and there was no consideration from him now. He was still so angry he got caught. He should have been more careful. It never occurred to him that he had done something wrong. The child consented, or so he told himself. He blamed the temptation and the lust and he convinced himself that it was her and not him. A certain sadness overtook him. The pain we all feel filtered up through the selfish remains of a wasted life. For a moment, just a moment, he could not even remember her name. When he turned over and curled up against a wall, he was ended in the blink of an eye. By lockdown, it was already too late.
 
“This is how we know who the children of God are and who the children of the devil are: Anyone who does not do what is right is not God’s child, nor is anyone who does not love their brother and sister.” (1John 3:10, NIV)
 
The prison fellowship was designed by the staff to encourage hope among the incarcerated. No life was beyond God’s reach. Simple acts of love and charity didn’t have to be for only the Christian or Muslim but for the atheist and any searching heart; the hardest criminal as welcome as any innocent man. The ecumenical, the non-denominational approach, was inclusive for any prisoner, no matter the spiritual path they followed or the God they did or did not serve. Love knows no bounds. Compassion knows no separation. Everyone is created in God’s image. Not a single being on this planet is exempt from God’s mercy and forgiveness. The movement acted by example offering hope, healing and a reminder that the light within is stronger than the darkness all about. This was their mission, to set the prisoner free, to acknowledge that even the most heinous monster is still a person, still has value. To use a simple candy cane as an expression of that love. Simple acts from a simple place from a simple God.
 
“For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me. Then the righteous will answer him, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?' The King will reply, 'Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.'"
(Matthew 25:35-40, NIV)
 
Joe Riley sat back in his chair and scanned the security cameras one more time. He had done the overnight shift before but working on Christmas Night made him grumpy and bored and hungry. Until his co-worker returned from break, he couldn’t even go to the bathroom. A little plastic Christmas tree sat near his feet, which were folded over each other and resting on the console. He felt like one of the inmates, trapped like some devoid convict would be. He thought back on Christmas morning. He thought about his kids and his wife and the tree. He could still smell the turkey, taste the nog. Only time could free him from this jailhouse now. He reached behind, not wanting to change his position. It was a stretch to reach them. He grabbed one and rested well in his former position. He struggled to get the damn candy open, the tight plastic wrap much tougher than it looks. He sucked on the thing until it melted away. Soon enough, Joe Riley headed home, finally freed from his Christmas internment.
 
 
 
 
 
 
Photo
 
https://www.eatthis.com/candy-cane-tootsie-pops/
 
 
 
Sources
 
https://www.prisonfellowship.org/resources/training-resources/in-prison/ministry-basics/top-10-bible-verses-on-prison-ministry/
 

Top of the Tree

 

Henry was barely a tree when some stupid kid snapped his top off and tossed it onto the grassy knoll that served as an entrance to the tree farm. The lot was almost a forest. He watched as each Christmas traveler crushed his broken leader into the mud. It never really grew back. As the years passed, Henry became a strong and sturdy tree. He carried himself to the standard of any Christmas tree farm. For all his vigor and stature, year after year, come the day after Christmas and he stood alone. Sitting on the edge of the lot did him no good, without fail come the yuletide season and he found himself unwanted. Passersby would comment on his beauty then walk away and desert him once again. Henry started to believe that he would never be a real Christmas tree.

Despite the constant rejection, Henry managed a purpose through the rest of the year. Birds would nest in his branches and small animals would seek shelter underneath his heavy lower boughs. Every summer, spiders would set up their traps and creepy crawling things would seek his richness to avoid the rain. Come the snow and the wind,  Henry was a warmer  place. The denseness of his needles and the fullness of his form offered protection from a cold winter’s night. Day after day, he sat waiting for his top to grow back but it never did but he sure did. It was a curse he supposed, a Christmas tree with no support for a star or an angel. One year, a male chipmunk named Dave set up shop in his branches. For awhile, he was his closest friend. Eventually, Dave found love and moved away. Like life without a steeple, his friend was gone and Henry faced another Christmas season. He didn’t hold out hope. He didn’t even wish. Henry sat on the corner spot and he surrendered. He would no longer dream of Christmas morning. He no longer believed that his lot in this life would change. 

Even in a torrent, hope always floats.

 

The little boy looked at Henry with a smile. He was everything the boy had dreamed of in a tree. His father was well pleased, considering he would not have to trudge through the tree farm if they settled on Henry. The tree could hardly believe it when the man picked up his saw and teased. The boy, and the dog that came with him, danced around Henry with a certain kind of joy only children and animals seem to possess. With the father came the mother. She stood, arms crossed, in her mind placing Henry in her front window for all the world to see. “There’s something wrong,” she said with a frown. “There is no top of the tree.” Henry was defeated as they walked away, the child crying from want. It wasn’t long before the boy discovered another option, one that was everything the boy had dreamed of in a tree. This tree had a crown on the top.  

 

Over the years, Henry grew and he grew. He was a stunning testament to nature regardless of any missing top. Every day, Henry sat watching the world go by and he did not dream. There was little purpose in hoping when there was no hope. He watched the pruners come and go. He watched the snow come in December and the snow melt come April. He spent his summers giving shade and his autumns blocking the wind. Despite his disability, Henry got bigger every year. Eventually, he realized he would soon be one of those abandoned trees that become far too big for Christmas. Come early November and the farmer who owns the property pulled up onto that grassy knoll and he and his wife got out of the truck. He then grabbed some sort of sign from the cab and reached down, finally pulling out a hammer. The man walked directly over to Henry, touched the post to the ground and with a few short bursts, drove it home. “Not for sale” was Henry’s epitaph. When the wife questioned the sign, all the farmer had to say was, “It’s too big.”

 

When the farmer told his wife Henry was no longer for sale, the tree understood the sign and what it meant. Henry was just too big to be anything but an outside tree. All the years of not wishing and not hoping and not dreaming seemed met. Henry was lost a little, at least the little that a tree could muster. He was defeated and as sad as a blue spruce could ever be. His animal friends didn’t help at all, as they ran back to their family and the life they got to lead. He was angry, angry at the young boy who broke off the top of the tree. He was angry at all the people who had disregarded him simply for lack of a steeple. All that waited for him now was removal and the inevitable refuge pile on the other side of the farm. Henry shivered, not so much from the cold but at the very idea that his purpose was over and he never got to be a Christmas tree.

 

The ladder truck was used primarily for pruning larger trees. On occasion, it would serve a more primal cause. The truck parked to the back of Henry and raised its cab to his top. Slowly, up and down, men draped Henry with strands and strings and dangly things. Several people handed the workmen large balls and shiny bits of light. Soon Henry was covered, from his base to the top of the tree. The very last thing one of the decorators did was take the cab back to the top and secure something Henry could not see. Someone then brought out a cord of sorts, it ran from the attendance gate just a few meters away. Henry was confused by all the ruckus. He had never seen anyone on the farm do this sort of thing to any other tree. Suddenly, as the sun hit the late afternoon sky, everyone left Henry. The trucks pulled away, the farmer disappeared and the tree farm closed up for another day. Henry sat alone again, unsure of what had happened, unsure he would be okay. Suddenly, the lights came on.

 

Every Christmas since then, Henry has illuminated the entrance of his tree farm. He didn’t get to be a Christmas tree for just one Christmas, he got to be a Christmas tree every year. Henry grew comfortable with his beauty and continued to share his safety throughout the other seasons. He was regal, humble and majestic in his own way. The first Christmas they lit him up, his old friend Dave dropped in for some yuletide cheer. Henry spotted his approach, glad to see his buddy. Dave couldn’t believe his eyes. So many colors, so many lights. Henry was a Christmas tree. Dave looked up, way up and he saw it. “Henry,” he said with a smile, “you’ve got a star on top.”

 

 

 

 

 
 

Photo

 

https://pennylanefineart.com/collections/susan-ball/products/sb519

 

 

The Snow

  

Oliver had never seen real snow before. For all his five years, Frosty the Snowman was as close as he had gotten. Christmas Eve had always been a dry event as far as the front lawn could remember. Living just outside of Phoenix almost guaranteed a warm desert and a sunny Christmas morn. The storm front moved in and brought five inches of the white stuff with it. It had not snowed that much in the Phoenix area in over 50 years, if ever. Oliver watched the marvel from his parents’ front window. His folks had to shush him a time or two. His excitement was contagious. As his Mom and Dad prepared themselves, Oliver sat with his mud boots on, ready to go. He barely needed a jacket by the time it had all fallen. It was a wet day and a white day and a day the boy might never forget. He stepped out of the entrance, giggling and bouncing onto the porch. He was as taken aback as any child his age would be. He carefully took to the steps, a blanket on each of them. He walked over to the center of the front lawn and he dropped into the midst of it. He put his hands full down into snowfall, crushing it into ice in each hand. He reached for more of it, ramming a handful into his mouth. He tingled at the cold and slushy wet. He did what his Dad had shown him. He laid himself down and made his first snow angel. He didn’t really get it until they came and pulled him away. The excitement seemed to end when all the stuff began to melt. Oliver tromped back up the steps, splashing as he went along. As dusk arrived, the wait for Santa began. Oliver had to take his boots off before his Mom would let him come into the house.
 
The room was filled with a certain sadness as she sat alone, staring through the large vacant window. Every hour was the same for her. Just like before, she was lost in the madness and lost to herself. She just sat there, day after day, with a blank glare and a broken heart. They locked her up so they didn’t have to deal with her, deal with her moods, deal with her anger. She was a violent offender but her medication seemed to ease her rage. She had not said a word since her arrival. She withdrew from the world when they took her world away. She would spend this Christmas Eve celebrating with a 3’ x 5’double pane of glass. The Banner Behavioral Health Hospital, located just outside Scottsdale, Arizona was supposed to be the very best for treatment but to her it was just another prison, more walls to keep her in. She saw the clouds forming in the distance. They gathered, then proceeded. The sky moved from sharp blue to dense grey, rapidly. She was silently thrilled when she saw the first snowflake fly. It brought others along with it. The snow began to fall, then it just kept falling. She observed as if watching TV or counting sheep. The tempest was intense but lasted no more than 15 minutes. It was brief but heavy. It managed to cover everything in a glimmer of frost and an alabaster sheet of cold. In the midst of it, she could barely make out the streetlights or any car parked across the way. She did not move. She did not clamor. She did not hue and cry. She just sat there watching the snow fall. Come morning, it would all be gone.
 
She was a strong woman, even if she didn’t know it. Life had always brought her chaos, a human condition she resented. For all her 70 years, she had never really been alone. All her past mistakes and all her emptiness found a place when her second husband died. He had been the cream of her crop, the yang to her ying. When her daughter passed a few years before, she thought there was nothing that could match her pain. She was wrong. The loss of her husband tested her. It was a smart idea for her to occasionally care for her grandkids. Underneath it all, she was broken. When her son suggested she watch his youngest daughter for a few days, she welcomed the yuletide distraction. All the noise, all the questions, yet she greeted the pandemonium with open arms. She loved her granddaughter and took the opportunity to create memories with her. The Youngtown public park was just down the street from her home. The standard display of equipment met the usual childhood glee. When the snow started, she noted it never snows in Arizona, especially on Christmas Eve. With a chill among the snow, she put the jacket she had carried around on the girl and stood with her. Piece by piece did not pass her by. As the little girl danced in the stuff, she paused, closed her eyes and wished he could be there with them. By the time her son picked both up, the snow had almost melted. She spent the next few days with family and with friends. After the presents were opened and the mess found, she sat in silence, the back porch would have to do. What a contrast from the night before. She looked up into the sky and wished it would snow again.
 
Almost halfway between Phoenix and Scottsdale, the St. Francis Catholic Cemetery looms near the side of the road. A cast iron fence is really all that stands between the dead and anyone just dying to get in. The mortuary faces the N 48^th, on what once used to be the border between the two towns. They buried their first body back in 1897 and there had rarely been snow since then, not that anyone alive could remember. If there was one thing Kyle did not expect this Christmas Eve, it was a dense layer of snow covering  everything. As he entered St. Francis, it started to fall. By the time he crossed the graveyard, it was heavy and wet and sticking. The only time he had seen such a sight was on a trip to New York one Christmastime. Driving was slippery and he slowed his approach for fear he might slide off the newly iced up road and into a monument. For the last twenty years he had made the same trip, never once encountering such weather. He stopped the car dead center of the road and he parked it there. It wasn’t often you saw people in a cemetery on Christmas Eve, so he felt comfortable avoiding the side of a snowy mess. He took the flowers and the card and he trudged through the falling snow. The graves were invisible but for a milestone down the way. Each ground marker was filled all in by the fluffy barrage of blizzard and Kyle had trouble locating his focus. He wiped it clear with a boot and a brushing. He stood cold, looming over the thing like it was an unanswered prayer. The chill did not last this yuletide night. Warmth soon returned and with it a melting relief. He left the stone abandoned, following his own footprints past fading ice and the emptiness of each visit. In all the years since their parting, he had never once shared his grief with the snow.  
 
 
One by one, the lights went on. Vivid blue, yuletide green and crimson red bulbs all pulsed about like on any Christmas Eve. The snow stopped falling as dusk began to set and the dull white world of that afternoon now brought a shimmering, a kaleidoscope of color bouncing off retreating ice and snow. Any precipitation now merely lingered, simple mirrors fading fast. The city can be dingy and grey regardless of when. At Christmas time, in a warmer place, there is little fanfare when it comes to the weather. You get what you get, seems to be the rule. Every once in awhile, life tosses something unexpected in with the lot. You have to notice it for it to have meaning. There are common experiences we all share, moments of joy and reflection that come and go without notification. 

Sometimes all it takes is a snowstorm.  
 
                                                                                                                          
 
 
 
Photo
 
https://www.bizjournals.com/phoenix/news/2019/02/22/winter-wonderland-storm-blankets-spring-training.html

The Christmas Box

 

  

 

When she was told she was inoperable, she decided not to tell anyone. She fought hard for over two years but enough was enough. Living was worse than dying for her. The constant sting of a cold, long suffering held her more somber than angry. All she could think of was what would happen to little Sara. Elizabeth Reed knew she was going to end. They told her she would soon do just that. Of course, these were the same people who told her a year before that everything was under control and she would be just fine. She stood face to face. To imagine continuing to suffer so, the treatments, the therapy, all seemed senseless to her. She was going to die regardless. She would not tell her husband. She would not tell her family. While her war with cancer was a common knowledge, she carried her secret, digging her grave.
 
A few weeks later and Christmas rested heavy on Beth’s shoulders. Every time her daughter found a gift or shone wonder in her eyes, the thought of being without her was almost more than she could stand. Come Christmas morning and the traditions flowed like warmed chocolate or caramel. The room was heavy for her, filled with hopes and dreams that would never be again. Sara played with the mess, tugging, exploring and allowing nothing to stop her childish ways. She was a tall girl for all her seven years. Her slight figure and blonde hair made her more Lori Partridge than Marcia Brady. Beth watched every minute, well knowing this day would not come again for her. She was fascinated by the wonder each present seemed to bring the child. Beth moved from joy into sadness and back again a few times. As gifts were unwrapped and boxes discarded, a notion came to her weary mind. It lightened her load. She played with it in her head. She started it slow and then, like any idea, it started to grow.  
 
Christmas afternoon, she climbed the attic stairs and hunted for it. She pulled down the loft ladder and raced up it in spite of herself. She was overcome with agony at the top of the thing. It stopped her almost dead. She did not pause, she halted and dropped down on the almost gossamer mist she had stirred in her exhaustion. She raised her head and looked about the place. She was unbalanced as she stood and turned on the light. She had not been up in the attic since well before Sara was born. It was filled with the standard fare, boxes and dangling things and the cliché rocking horse covered with dust in the corner near a tiny roof light. At first, between the dust and the dankness, it was hard to get her bearings as she scanned around the large room and into each crawl space. She wasn’t sure she could find it. It had to be there. In a far back hidden space, among other unused decorations for seasons throughout the year, it laid alone on a table, covered in a blanket to protect it from decades of attic buildup. Silently, diligently, she clambered with it, securing its wrapping. She struggled, heading down the attic’s ladder, then she quickly shut herself up in her room.

January 9^th
 
Her husband dropped her off just like every other appointment. She carefully went inside and disappeared near the elevators. Once the coast was clear, she found a place in the main waiting lobby, opened her book and began to waste time. It was as easy to sit there in pain as it was to be told there was little anyone could do. She lied and continued to take no treatment whatsoever. When the time came to re-enter her world, she walked by the gift shop located near the front exit. As she passed, she noticed a lovely Christmas snow globe for 50% off. The scuffed pewter base met smoked glass and a Christmas tree surrounded by presents nestled together dead center. It snowed when she shook it. It rested not so carefully on a small table with a few packages of yuletide napkins, a few out of date calendars and a Santa Claus mug with a clear chip out if it. She treated it like it was Christmas gold (despite the flaw). It was enchanting and it called to a season now so far away. She hoped she could make it.
 
January 28^th
 
James Reed was a gentle being and had handled the entire cancer thing with control and class. He was a good man and he deserved better than this, at least that is how Beth felt about it. She needed him more than he would ever know. He pushed her every so often, when the sickness came and she was far too weak to walk. The wheels of the chair went round and round as embarrassment turned into just another prison. They only needed a  few things from the dollar store. Her lap became a bucket and she carried their needs with her throughout. They grabbed treats for Sara in the candy aisle. Beth spotted the sucker display right away. They came in so many flavours and the colours were bright and summery. She grabbed all five flavours, shushed her husband, and carefully carried them with her. She disappeared into the bedroom the minute she got home.
 
February 15^th
 
A visit to the department store on the day after Valentine’s Day was a well  planned event. Beth managed to make it to a shopping cart without any assistance or anyone knowing she was overwhelmed with pain. Nothing could stop her. The reduced section was prime for her purpose. She bought three boxes of chocolates, all containing their own unique tastes. Milk chocolates, caramel chews and several tubes of Smarties met her as she stood there struggling with the scene. In one final salute to the holiday, Beth bought the biggest red velvet heart filled with candy. She tucked it under her arm. For a second, just a second, she could not see straight. Everything blurred and she suddenly felt dizzy and out of sorts. It passed as quickly as it had come but left her frazzled and unsure if she should drive. She sat near a garbage can when James pulled up and saved her. Someone would come later and help get the other vehicle. Beth held her treasures tight against her chest and the two struggled to get her into the automobile. James carried her from the van to the bedroom with mighty intent. He laid her and her treasures quietly on the bed and covered her with a throw she had been given by her mother. She rested well for awhile but the pain would come again with her waking.  
 
March 2^nd
 
It had been a few weeks since her blinding experience but the doctor said it was nothing, a glitch in the body’s equilibrium. He urged her to allow treatment. There was no consolation. The only real purpose medicine served her now was securing pain pills and appeasing James. She saw it sitting pretty in the window of the Home Hardware as she waited for her husband in the bank across the street. The large blue box was half window and you could see the elegance and quality of the dolly. The doll’s hair matched Sara’s and its velvet dress called out to her to take it home. She gladly answered the call. When James got back to the van, she sent him into the hardware store and had him purchase the figure. When questioned, she had little to say other than she was Christmas shopping. It did not take long for  her to disappear, shutting her bedroom door behind her.
 
March 4^th 
 
Her grocery store was more than a grocery store. It had an entertainment section, a clothing section and toys scattered throughout the place. A full pharmacy sat just inside the front entrance. She didn’t need Wal-Mart to add to her collection. As she wandered through the store, she added this item and that item from a list she brought with her from home. She had to stop a few times, leaning heavy against her cart hoping no one would notice.  The bulk of the groceries all sat together in the main basket. The arm basket was all for Sara. As Beth gently moved throughout the place, she grabbed anything that garnered her attention. The pile grew quickly as she hunted throughout the store. She grabbed perfume and a hairbrush set.  The vanity mirror was just the right size. It took her a little while to figure out what books she should grab. She brought a beautifully bound scrapbook, with leather binding and gold inlay. She had so many pictures for it. She was on a scavenger hunt and nothing better get in her way. She bought a t-shirt, in a future size, that claimed “My Momma Loves Me.”  She bought a few stuffed animals and a few ballerina ornaments and a Disney poster. By the time she got home, she was exhausted but she managed to unload all the things she had bought for Sara, eventually hoarding them in her bedroom. As James unpacked the groceries then put them away, Beth fell to sleep on her bed. It was the first time in weeks she had drifted into slumber while in no pain.
 
March 29^th.
 
The prognosis had not changed. With or without treatment, Beth’s time was running out. Pain medication and a secret compulsion seemed to help her make it through each day. Agony lingered, always moving about her in waves of sheer misery. She mostly kept it to herself. James knew she was suffering but he allowed her the freedom to go through this process as she saw fit.  Some days were okay; she could deal with it, trudge through it. Other days were like torture, forcing Beth to her bed. It didn’t matter how she felt, in those moments of calm, when she was functional (before the pills had kicked in), she attended her growing hoard. She sat with her project and worked on it from bed. She would drift in and out as she folded pretty papers and sealed greeting cards. By late afternoon, you could find her curled up in a ball, hugging a few rolls of wrapping paper.

April 11^th
 
Some days can be tough but others not so much. For the briefest of moments you can function again, be independent again. Beth finally felt good enough to take a walk around the neighbourhood with James. Quaint Victorian-era homes lined a street overcome by 200 year old trees. It was a safe area, upper middle class, mixed with larger and richer owners. The house on the corner still sent shivers through her whenever she scrutinized the architecture and sculpture. The street was lively this Sunday morning so Beth avoided the church down the street the same way she avoided religion, she went the other way. Neighbourhood garage sales sporadically popped up along their path. She spotted the trio right away. On display, for all to barter, sat three square pictures, Ballerinas one and all. Beth had to have them so she lurched past some old woman and secured the prize. She would have paid triple the asking price.
 
May 18^th
 
For over a month, Beth was much better day to day. Less pain, an appetite and returned energy were all good signs. James suggested she might be in remission but she got sick before a doctor could confirm it. Nothing lasts forever. Before it got really nasty again, Beth managed to find solace with the internet. She could shop without a chance she might puke in an aisle. She didn’t overdo it, she carefully welcomed each addition to the pile. Beth started ordering whenever she came across something that might fit in with her plan. A small table clock, white gold bracelets, a pair of diamond earrings mingled in with all the rest. She wanted to order a beautiful plush robe but size had to be taken under consideration. The final thing she ordered was an ornamental Christmas tree decoration made of pewter and smoked glass with “Merry Christmas” on the rim. It matched the globe. James placed each parcel as they arrived, setting them inside her walk-in closet for when she got better. As she laid there writhing, she gave little thought to anything but her project and how she had to finish it. She organized it over and over in her mind.
 
July 22^nd
 
James implored her to do something so she did. The most they could do was ease her suffering. All the treatments, all the hoping would do no good. She promised James she would try. Every puke was for somebody else. Every spasm, every pulse were all for everyone else. She tried again but for James and for Sara and nobody else. For weeks, Beth barely left her bed. It wasn’t the pain that crippled her but rather its treatment, sending her into a daze hour after hour. It was a sinkhole, a trap, so much “damned if you do, damned if you don’t.”  She would return to reality for mere moments, then another time found enough lucidity to bathe and feed. James approached the bed and sat down beside her. He handed her a brown paper bag, the kind with the rope handle that helps it to dangle. “For your collection,” he said with a grin. The oak box was chiseled with lilacs and Boston ivy. The glass lid was framed in the same grain. Beth raised the lid and a Ballerina danced to Mozart. She smiled. James kissed her on the forehead.
 
August 2
 
She seemed to bounce back quickly. Her immune system was fighting, even though it would do no good. Whenever she felt well enough, she had James walk with her through this store or that shop. A walker chair was her new best friend. They moved together in one motion. James made sure to watch each step she took. Beth looked frail and weak but it did not matter. Unto her last breath she would pursue it. This Mom knew just what she was doing when she had James head towards the decorative section. The aisle was filled with picture frames from one end to the other. Beth leaned against the walker, intimated by the abundance and choice. James stood watching Beth try her very best to keep going. He knew it was the one when he spotted it. He picked it right up and handed it to her. She almost cried. The white 5” x 7” frame was simple and to the point with “Me and Mom” carved into the base of the thing. It was exactly what she wanted and she sat fully down on the retractable chair, exhausted. James helped her back to the car then got her into bed. He covered her like he always does, her mother’s throw so warm and comforting. He tucked the frame in her closet for safe keeping.
 
September 10^th 
 
Even though she had sworn not to take treatment, Beth gave in to James’ pleading, allowing hope to rise from the ashes of her suffering. It was a radical new approach and may not have returned satisfactory results but that did not happen. Almost instantly, Beth started to gain weight. Her hair stopped falling out. Her life began to take shape again. For days at a time, she seemed okay. It wasn’t all okay. She was still very ill but even that seemed to fade rather quickly. James was convinced the new treatment had worked. Beth held out little hope and continued on with her mission. She doubted that her life was even possible. She took the opportunity to gather more goodies for her collection. She was running out of room so new gifts would have to be smaller and centered on more mature themes. Outside of a few choice heirlooms, everything else was straightforward. Gifts of candy were eventually substituted with adult objects like a beautiful green pashmina and a pair of Ballerina slippers, two sizes plus. She grabbed a few things based only on if they fit into her basket. Her joy was overflowing even though hope continued to suffer. She wanted to believe everything would be okay. James seemed to have convinced himself that it would be. For the briefest of moments, life was worth living. Not convinced, she stuck with her original plan.

                                                                                                                
September 22
 
The Christmas decorations had been set out in the dollar store located about a mile from her home. She was confident driving, sure of herself. It had been weeks since the pain, weeks since the symptoms. She filed in the front door and secured a cart as a regular basket just would not do. She didn’t check out the candy or any seasonal display that might otherwise garner one’s attention. She headed straight for the Christmas wrapping paper conveniently located at the front of the store and throughout the newly set out Christmas aisles. She counted and checked her list. One after another, the pile grew. Traditional themes like Christmas flowers or candy canes met abstract rolls covered with blurred snowmen and snowflakes often coloured blue. She did not just take whatever was offered. A few were horrid and made her laugh in spite of herself. She didn’t even consider the roll covered with the smiling poop emoji proudly sporting a Santa Claus hat. When she had scoured the lot, she headed down the greeting cards aisle and focused on any other wrapping paper outside of the Christmas flavour. She found a few. She tossed some bows and some ribbon into the lot. She added accents to her growing collection.   
 
September 23
 
Beth’s sister Chloe decided to spend the day with her sibling antiquing. They took the chair just in case. From one shop to another, the two shared the atmosphere and each other. Beth still made sure not to miss the chance to say goodbye. The emporium across town held the real treasures. New or old, the place reeked of excess and materialism and instant gratification. Beth knew that sometimes these things are all we have left to cling to. Like her mother’s throw, in a short time these touchstones will be all that’s left of her. It was okay to remember and to find comfort in something you still love. She knew what she was after, she just didn’t know which. The watches sat aligned like tin soldiers readied for war. For twelve years, Beth had secretly stashed away cash in case they ever needed it. It became a large amount very quickly and her private nest egg now held a greater purpose. It had to be simple but extravagant. After 10 minutes of debate with Chloe, Beth chose a thin, black  Jaeger-LeCoultre Master. She bought it without knowing the price. With a year of university in her handbag, she tucked her joy in with it.
 
October 2
 
Beth went from gathering to assembly in the blink of an eye. She was so well organized and so enthused that going from getting to giving gave her much pleasure. It was the little things that had helped her along her way. Brief moments filled with wonder, in spite of the gloom. Life, it seemed, was worth it again. She began to believe and she began to hope. When she arrived home from the mall, she habitually carried a few things inside for Sara then promptly returned in her gardening smock with newly sharpened pruning sheers. As she trimmed overgrown ivy in the side garden, she hummed to herself. She didn’t let the moments go by. All she had was now and she was thankful for it. She didn’t notice it at first but eventually the blood on one glove caught her eye. She quickly investigated the source of the rather abundant stream. She stood up, used her work gloves to block the flow, then ran inside holding her nose.   

October 20
 
The problem with hope is there really isn’t any. No one is immortal and we all are going to die, no matter the fuss we make as we avoid departure. The treatment was not working. Things were threatening again. No one had claimed a cure. The doctors were surprised she had lasted this long but they told her it wouldn’t be long now, three months tops. This would be more than enough time for her to finish her project and prepare for Christmas. All the pain, all the struggle over the years was nothing compared to this. She had allowed hope to find a place with her well knowing. She had allowed herself to dream and to trust and to believe that maybe life would go on with her. She had to focus. She had to ready. She took the small antique jewelry boxes she had bought at that watch shop and sat herself down in front of her large walnut vanity. She tried not to look in the grand oval mirror which hung over the dresser. The burrow was covered in perfume and makeup and devices meant for beauty. Beth had not touched them in weeks. She reached down, unlocked a drawer and pulled out a steel box which she also unlocked. In one vessel would go her mother’s wedding ring. In another, a broach left to her by her great-grandmother. She shuffled about the trinkets and riches and she found the very last thing she would add to her set. It was a dainty little lock her father had given her, pure gold on a matching chain. It unsnapped in the proverbial way. 
 
November 2
 
James cleared away the paper and the ribbons and the bows and placed them carefully on the window sofa that sat quietly in the room. She was out cold, more hibernation than resting. The cold November day gave way to sweaters and blankets and warmed honey tea. She was a whisper, barely breathing, barely there at all. He took her mother’s throw and covered her in the most tender of ways. He thought to himself how this mere blanket had always brought comfort and joy to his wife. He finally understood what she had been trying to do all these weeks and months. As Sara spent the day in school, James spent the  day with Beth. He laid down beside her, wrapped himself around her and fell asleep while listening to her breathing. He would be there when Beth awoke just in time for her pills. He would be there.
 
November 14
 
She had filled out a card for each gift as she purchased them. Each was assigned a different date and a different reason. Each card was then securely attached to its corresponding package, then fit down into it as if a piece of her puzzle. She had loaded things up, a trial run, more than a dozen times, wanting for abundance and substance in the very same move. She laid out three cards and their envelopes like she was about to prepare a grand dinner or record her findings. She had played with what to say a million times and she completed each task with precision and grace. She took each card and slid it into its safe harbour, having signed them respectively. One was for James, one was for Sara and one was for the Christmas Box.

November 19
 
She had James bring out the Christmas décor a little early, just in case. It took a few days to get it just right. Once the décor was up and the season restored, James brought in a beautiful blue spruce and secured it in the corner near the back sliding doors. Beth sat most of the time, focusing her energy on the lower half of the tree. James, for obvious reasons, managed the top. To cap it off, James raised the stunning white angel his father had given him the year before he passed. James placed it on top. The entire time, Sara danced about with that certain kind of glee the very idea of Christmas can bring. Beth sat curled up on the couch in a certain kind of place in her mind. The glow of this moment was really all she could ask for and all she had left. There was nothing more but this and the Christmas box.
 
December 1
 
James carried her from their bed to the couch. He had done this a hundred times. Her frail, almost lifeless body clinging only to time. There was plenty of room for her endeavor as she had allowed no other gifts to find a place underneath the Christmas tree. She was resolved that James would have to fetch her treasures from her walk-in closet and place them under the monolith. It was a large box, made from heavy pressed board, dense and rather sturdy. The top of it was painted with simple hunter green, it gave such a classy flavour. The base was a heavy red, solid and strong. Two pewter handles sat vertically rather than on each side. The treasure chest wasn’t that heavy but it was slightly awkward. Sara had faced this challenge when she first pulled the thing down to begin her quest. Even things we leave in the past can be useful in the now. Beth’s grandfather had given the box to her grandmother Elizabeth decades before. She wanted something safe and sound to hold all her Christmas decorations. She died shortly thereafter. The box had sat unused, uncorrupted while waiting with the dust. When her Dad died, it was given to Sara with her share of her mother’s estate. A large white bow with ribbons crossing held it all together. She slid the white envelope under one branch of ribbon with “Love Mom” as its epitaph. She cried when she realized she had made it, met her mission, sealed her fate. Her challenge now was how to get them from the closet to the tree and into their place under it.
 
James did as he was instructed and the box found its place at the back of the tree. It was a challenge, considering the weight and the bow that sat on the flat. It was easier going in than it was to set it out. The dolly package was placed out front for the child to wish upon, “Merry Christmas Sara” the inscription. James brought in a modest amount of gifts from him and family members. It was a quaint scene, reserved but intense. She sat with James, listening to Nat King Cole and rather pleased with herself. The tree glimmered and so did Sara. For this moment, from this moment, all would now be measured. There was one more thing, then she could rest. 
                                                    
December 3
 
She laid in bed suffering. Her clandestine journey would require the ability to walk and function. The pain pills, she didn’t actually take them. Once James was safe and secured (and snoring), Beth literally dragged himself into her closet, moved a few sweaters and snatched James’ gift. She diligently made it to the living room, hiding the gift beside Sara’s dolly. His name was all it said. She flipped on the tree lights, turned on a fireplace that was streaming, and with her mother’s throw, curled up on the couch and rested awhile. She would be there come morning.

 
December 8
 
In less than a week, she was completely gone. Ashes to ashes met all the commemoration stuff. People cried. People sympathized. People mourned her. James was glad that she didn’t want a funeral. The cremation was quick and the memorial service completely in Chloe’s hands. Little Sara was lost in the confusion that confronts a child when dealing with death.  James grieved but in a different way. For over a year, he had been letting go. He did not plan a life without her but he knew it was coming.   
 
December 25
 
James knew Beth would want him to go on with Christmas. For the sake of the child, and her project, she made James promise that if something should happen, he would make sure Sara got the Christmas Box and her dolly. Getting enough gumption to get out of bed was a challenge for both of them. Despite the few gifts from Chloe and friends, it was a forced event. James was surprised when he reached for the dolly and discovered a gift just for him. They opened them together.
 
She removed the white bow carefully, already well trained to keep things to cherish.
The box top did not stand in the way for long. Inside was a testament to all her mother’s hard work. One package for each Christmas, and for each birthday, until she turns 21. Gifts for each birthday were labeled so. Other gifts were for Christmas and each had a bow. It was a puzzle that was to be left as is until empty. They placed it in her walk-in closet until the next year.
                                                               
 
December 25
 
The gift was taken out and placed beneath the tree like every year. It was the last one. She would be with them once again. Sara had named her newly born son James, after her late father, so the picture frame with “Me and Mom” sat well with “Me and Dad” on the same table.  

 
The Christmas Box was not discarded. Sara knew what she had to do. Instead of putting it away for another year, she had it placed in a corner of the basement, in a cubby hole barely big enough for one. Sara started to collect almost immediately after that visit to the doctor a few weeks earlier. She didn’t tell anyone.

Photos
 
https://www.istockphoto.com/videos/christmas-present