It had been snowing for a while and only because it was Christmas Eve, the flakes fell undisturbed. Families could be seen through open curtained windows carrying on traditions passed down through generations. The crunching of the snow under her boots was loud and sharp. The wind swirled and danced, sweeping down and grabbing bits of frozen ice crystals from under herb roots and carried them off on unseen wings. Racing back, biting her already pink from excitement cheeks, it left a dusting of snow on her eyelashes.
The sound, almost unbearable compared to the quietness of the night, refreshed itself with each step forward. The bright red boots. Although she secretly coveted them, they were really too big. Snow tiptoed over the tops and quickly melted, creating a sucking noise with each step she took. Her pant legs rode up so that that top of the boots rubbed her tender skin and created a ring of fire, not quite felt yet. Later it would sting and refresh the memories of this night.
Snow fell softly, yet heavily, creating a blanket of white that hid the neglected porches and grass bare yards of summer. The wind bubbled around her head and crept into the tiny spaces between her tattered coat and bare skin. Her fingers, already stiff in the journey from her pocket to the open gap on her coat, fumbled to button her collar against the wind. Discovering, and then remembering, that the button had popped off earlier and rolled in escape, under and around the table leg, finally coming to rest near the sofa. Sweeping the floor with her hand, she came away with not only the wayward button, but dirt, dust, and the debris of children past. Without giving it thought, she dropped the found treasure into her coat pocket.
The child shivered as she looked up at the woman who had simply shown up thirty minutes earlier. Although she could not bring it to the surface of her memories, something was vaguely comfortable about the woman at her side. Reaching out, the woman took the little girl’s hand, their arms swinging in rhythm of their steps. An unthinkingly tiny gesture that filled the young child with an overwhelming joy that was more a memory than real. She looked at the two hands entwined, and wasn’t sure which one was hers.
Could this really be her mother? Seems all the other kids had one, or at least knew they had one, and talked about how their mother would come and get them one day. Stealing a sideways glance at the woman, the little girl thought, “She could be my mother if she wants.”
She’d been in foster care for longer than she could remember. It was really all that she knew. She was eighteen months old when found on the streets of Omaha, abandoned and alone, and became a ward of the State.
Her grandmother, hearing that she was in foster care, attempted to get custody of her. However, because of her age and other family dynamics, the court system felt the little girl would be better off in foster care. She could visit but not stay the night.
Foster parents in the early 50’s were not obligated to care for their wards during the holidays. Often, they would have them moved the week before Christmas to a temporary foster home, or the local orphanage. This way they could spend the holidays with just their family, without having another mouth to feed nor gift to buy, not giving thought to the feelings of a small child without a family of her own. Most times the child was unaware of the pending move until there was a knock on the door.
Not having a fireplace, she genuinely thought it was Santa tapping at the door. At five, her belief in the magic of Christmas was unwavering and, although there were no brightly colored lights to guide him, she simply never questioned if he was going to show. She had written him a letter using a red crayon. It was tucked into the bottom of the brown paper bag she used to store the few things that she was allowed to take from place to place. Unable to spell, she simply drew a picture of a tree. That’s all she was hoping for, a tree awash with yellows, and reds, and bright colored blue. She had only been in this foster home for two days and still couldn’t remember the name of anyone. It didn’t really matter because they didn’t know her name either. However, Santa didn’t forget little girls names, and she just knew he would find her letter. “Christmas isn’t Christmas without a tree,” she thought.
Racing against other children in the room, and being closest, she reached the door first. Once bright and fresh, it was now a mottled brown, grey, and grimy; mostly around the large brass doorknob. The brown, chipping off in large chunks, gave way to multiple layers of color. Like pages in a book, each layer holding stories of children who traveled in and out of the rooms of this foster home. Using both hands to turn the heavy knob, she pulled the door inward as it groaned with age.
It wasn’t Santa after all, but a woman with green eyes and a fur coat so long that only her head and the tips of her shoes peeked out. A cigarette was perched between two brown stained fingers as it’s smoke made lazy circles and filled the area with the acrid smell of unfiltered tobacco. She was looking down at her. The little girl looked up and they both paused for a moment, sharing a fleeting memory from long ago. Like a snowflake, caught in mid air by a warm tongue, it flashed and fizzled and was gone in a moment, before it had even reached that level where memories are kept and stored for later. For a split second, a tiny nugget of recognition pushed its way toward, but never quite reached, the surface. The woman had green eyes, made greener by heavy eyeshadow and the child thought they looked like the ones staring back at her in the mirror when she brushed her teeth.
Unceremoniously, the woman dropped the cigarette; the child watching it fall in mid air and landing with a bounce just outside of the open door. It continued to smoke as it rolled in a half circle, as if trying to escape, as the woman reached out her foot and crushed it flat. Without hesitation, as if she already been invited in, the blond haired woman, her grey coat sweeping the floor, pushed past the child. It created a storm of dust swirling up as she brushed across the threshold. To the delight of the other children, she dropped the coat on the closest chair. Cautiously stealing glances, the children reached out and stroked the coat as if it were a new puppy that would jump up and start chasing them. Ignoring the excitement, the child at the door, turned to begin gathering the few items that were hers. A fleeting thought flashed through her head as she wondered if Santa might be able to still find her and quietly wondered why they were moving her to another foster home so soon. She didn’t notice the glazed over eyes, slurred words, and sickly sweet smell as the woman began speaking in a scratchy smokers voice.
Mere seconds after the woman entered the room, the arguing began. The child listened as hard as she could. She couldn’t quite grasp what the two woman was saying as they turned in her direction; the words all blurred together, and bounced back and forth until they settled on, “Her mother.” “Her mother as in MY mother?” thought the pig tailed child, “But I don’t have a mother,” she spoke unknowingly out loud.
The foster mother, questioning what the woman wanted, was surprised by her answer. The location of children and their foster homes were not normally given to the biological parents. The children were ferried by caseworkers to home visits and court visits, the two sets of parents never meeting each other. Too young to understand, the child slid behind the sofa in an attempt to escape the yelling. Her eyes, behind glasses that were too big for her tiny face, blinked back tears as the strange woman began pulling at her while voices rolled over each other in the attempt to be heard. One of the children started wailing as the two women shouted. The voices were angry and she knew they were talking about her.
Her foster mother was shouting, “You can’t” The other woman’s voice was deep and husky, and the little girl thought it sounded like the dog next door fussing when the kids got too close to the fence. She sounded like she might bite when she said. “I will!” The woman, grabbing her coat from the floor where it had fallen, shook off little hands that came away with a fine covering of tiny hairs, some floating away and landing, unseen in it singleness, on whatever was closest. “I shouldn’t” and “You’d better,” had barely been spoken by the foster mother as the child was pushed into the unknown darkness of the night. The door slammed behind them, quieting the clamor.
It was dark and snowing, but the child was not yet cold. The woman whispered, more to herself than anyone listening. “Christmas is not Christmas without a tree,” which stopped the unspoken question that was racing around in the little girl’s head. Her minds voice telling her something she was not quite able to put into thoughts. It was familiar and the small child was not afraid at all.
As the two walked side by side, three blocks passed quickly in the quietness of Christmas Eve. Framed by windows of the houses they passed, bright lights blinked and spilled their colors onto the undisturbed snow and stretched into the dark edges, creating shadows on the falling flakes that made one think of fairies dancing on the wind. Deliciously sweet, the smell of cinnamon escaped brightly lit kitchens and reminded her of the soft, chewy cookies her grandmother had tucked in her coat pocket during her last visit with her. This time, reaching into the same pocket, there was only the round cold button, frayed threads still clinging to the tiny holes that once bound it to her coat.
Looking at their reflection in the darkened windows of the neighborhood grocery store that only hours before was bustling with families gathering once a year goodies, the darkness was loud. Just hours earlier, the store was bustling with shoppers, all gathering up those special things that would complete their Christmas dinner traditions. She had been there during that time. Small children, with hats that matched their coats were strapped in the cart seat facing who could only be their mother. The little girl was fascinated by the banter between mother and child. The mother chatting away while the child sucked on a red and white treat. The sweet pepperminty smell surround the smaller child as the sticky goodness covered her face and hands. The front of her little white coat was pink from the wet, sticky mess that dripped from her mouth to the candy. The mother giggled at the antics of her child, which made the watching child smile.
Outside, in a fenced off area by the parking lot, father’s were holding up trees for inspection while mothers laughed at excited children as they played the “This tree is nicer,” game. Workers tied the winning trees up tightly with twine and tossed them on top of cars. Often the branches overhanging the windows so that the driver had to turn his head from side to side to see past the needled branches that would soon litter their living room floor. She could see the twine, now holding their treasure as the left over strands whipped in the wind, the frayed ends flapping and tapping on the windows as if playing catch me if you can. She remembered her foster mother saying there was no money for a tree this year. However it was Christmas Eve and she was with a woman who wanted her to call her mother. Even at her sweet childish age, she knew why they were there and excitement began to bubble from within. “Christmas isn’t Christmas without a tree,” danced in her head as the darkness of the night over shadowed the brightness of the still falling snow.
The tree lot fence was unlocked. She knew, like the children she left up the hill, the few trees left were tossed aside; they were not tall enough nor pretty enough. Simply unwanted, they were left behind, seemingly forgotten.
Giggling, they held each tree up for inspection before deciding on their perfect tree. One on each side, holding branches now instead of hands. They began to retrace their steps, pulling the tree through now deeper snow. Loudly and lovely, the woman began to sing, and the child knew it was about this tree. “Oh Christmas Tree, how lovely are your branches.” Her voice was sweet and soothing and in the quiet of that moment, a realization began to wiggle within the little girl. THIS was HER mother. Her mother! She really did have a mother. She couldn’t wait to tell the others in her ever changing foster family. Mother, mom, mommy, all those words would forever have a meaning for her because she had one too, even if she didn’t remember. She would no long be, “That girl over there without a mother.”
She could see the faces of the other children, their noses pressed against the glass, as the two of them arrived back at the foster home with their treasure. Having left a trail of needles that a small bird could use to make a two story nest, it’s branches were almost bare as the tree, now standing taller in a bucket of sand, traded places with the children in the window. Colored lights that bubbled were pulled out of storage boxes and carefully clipped on tiny branches, making them bend under the weight. Plastic ornaments shaped like trains and boats were hung as high as the children could reach, leaving the top branches bare yet beautiful in their child minds. Their giggles of joy delighted each other and overpowered the anger of the adults. Tinsel, pulled off trees past, and tossed in clumps, lay at the bottom of the box. Left for last and transformed by tiny hands into long, silvery threads meant to give the illusion of icicles soon covered the tree, reflecting the lights into the eyes of the giddy children. They called out to each other with excitement, each child feeling a part as their names became known to each other. Recognizing the voice of the foster mother, it sounded different from the exhausted frustration that only comes from caring for too many children. Now softened and no longer angry, “Christmas isn’t Christmas without a tree,” rolled off her tongue with a smile, knowing this tree will lessen the disappointment of brightly wrapped gifts not covering the area surrounding the tree. Although no stocking were hung with care, each child would have one gift under their beautiful tree instead of in the corner.
Normal arguments of bedtime resistance were nowhere to be found as the children, scampered off to crawl under covers and await Santa. The little girl was surprised when her mother tucked her into bed that night and talked about loving the tree and the sleepy child. Unfamiliar with this ritual, she fought sleep as the woman sang words until the music drifted away on a cloud of sleep and the memory of the night was tucked strong into that little place in her heart where the good things stayed.
Though her mother was not there when she awoke on Christmas morning, the little tree was. Thirty years later, as she blew on the sparkly tinsel of her own tree, making it twist and flutter on the branch, an unspoken memory floated on her mind, the same memory that brought her comfort over the years. The memory, so deeply ingrained within her heart; a memory that she never shared lest an unthoughtful comment might forever change the feeling of that night It may not have happened exactly that way, but that is how the memory danced in her head whenever she recalled it. A time of wonder, discovery, and a mother who loved her. Although she saw her from time to time after that, it was never the same as that night so many years ago.
And now as she smiles at her own children, pink faced from the excitement of picking out their tree, she whispers to the wind as it swirls around the memories of that needle bare little tree. So quietly only she can hear the words, “Christmas isn’t Christmas without a tree.”
Owner/Editor - Chris Chmielewski