I could barely separate one small, round Christmas miracle from the next. I could not tell you, now, which one I chose second, only that a half-dozen of them are now delicately wrapped in tissue paper in a box of my very own. Nearly half a century after their creation, they wait patiently eleven months of the year, knowing that I will inhale deeply when I lift the lid and marvel at them again. I will imagine the four generations of women before me who made, then held and treasured them. I will wonder at their intricacy and bemoan my busy life that impedes my own ability to craft anything so fine, so detailed. And then I will hang them, one by one, onto the branches of our tree. I am too large now to fit under it – presents or no – in order to gaze upward through the boughs into a world of rainbow light and green shadows. I remember the girl who did, almost as someone different from me – almost as if the memory is not mine but the telling of a story from someone dear. But if I close my eyes and let the heady smell of pine surround me, the memory springs to sharp relief and I am that girl again. Small, vibrating with excitement, and easily captivated by the reflection of light off a faceted, jewel-covered Christmas ornament.
presented the box of hand-made ornaments and declared that it would circle the room and my mother, brother and I would each pick one on our turn until the box was empty. My first selection was the small starred ornament. For thirty years that piece had been my single favorite holiday decoration of all time. I held it in my hand as the box moved to my brother and back to my mom. When it was my turn again I was stuck. Still in awe that the Christmas ornament I had loved more than any other was now mine, I was paralyzed by choice. Staring at the sea of red, gold, pink, green and blue
Lori O’Hara is a humor writer who is still questing for the perfect mocha. You can read more of her writing at In Pursuit of It All or follow her on Twitter at @InPursuit_Of.