KAW 8: Precious Gift – NON-entry


This short tale may not follow the KAW 8 theme, in that Santa Claus isn't the main character. The story is more about what he represents.


* * * * *


Christmas will be different this year. It's the first since Laura died. Our kids are grown and live on opposite ends of the country. They were here for the funeral, of course, and they call on holidays, but with little ones of their own, coming here for the day isn't practical. I never liked flying, and my back acts up when I drive a long way, so I'll be alone. I debated about a tree for the holiday. Why bother? No one will see it but me.


About a week before Christmas I changed my mind. It would be tough enough without the house being the only somber-looking one on the block. Maybe some decorating would help.


My wife loved crafts. She insisted she had no talent, but everything she made proved her wrong. She was the queen of the glue gun. After the kids moved out, she spent a lot of time on her crafts and decorations, even teaching free classes at church and an after school program for disadvantaged kids.


More for the sake of her memory than anything else, I hung the bells and ribbons decoration she made on the front door. I dragged the artificial tree and strings of tiny white lights out of storage and assembled things in the living room where we always did, next to her favorite chair. I found the tote filled with beeswax ornaments she made a couple years ago, the angel tree topper she crafted from pine cones and white feathers, and a container of small painted wood beads strung into garland. With a few of her handmade Santa Claus dolls on the sofa, the room looked festive. Laura liked that. Christmas was her favorite time of year.


I went to the early Christmas Eve service like we always had at the church where we got married. This was the first year I sat in a pew by myself in decades. Reverend Thompson greeted me afterward. “I'm glad you came, Harold.”


“Laura and I never missed Christmas Eve here, Reverend.”


“I assume you saw we used your wife's wreaths. The ladies in the church office all took crafts classes from her, you know. After she passed they went through everything she made for us. They cleaned and repaired what was necessary and organized the decorations into groups so we can rotate the displays. We should be able to enjoy them for many Christmases to come.”


“Laura would like that.”


He put his hand on my shoulder. “Your wife was a good woman, Harold. She made people happy. I think that's our purpose here on earth. Everyone loved her. But don't grieve for her on Christmas.”


“I'm pretty well along in the grieving process, but sometimes it's hard. Her birthday, my birthday, our wedding anniversary – they're tough the first time alone.”


“Christmas is a time of hope. You'll be re-united with her some day.”


“Thank you, Reverend.”


The weather forecast called for snow to develop during the night. Flurries fell as I walked to my car. A young guy in an ill-fitting Santa suit stood ringing a bell in front of the convenience store on the corner, collecting money for charity. I pulled a twenty from my wallet and put it in his bucket.


“Ho, ho ho! That's a very generous contribution! Thank you, sir! Merry Christmas!”


“Shouldn't you be loading your sleigh?”


He chuckled. “The elves do that. In a couple minutes the supervisor will show up to collect the money and the gear I'm using. Then I can go home to my family. Do you have Christmas plans?”


“No. The kids live too far away, and my wife passed away last spring. I'll be alone this year. But I have forty years of good memories, so it's all right.”


“No one should be alone on Christmas, sir.”


“The kids will call when they're done opening presents. I decorated the tree like we always did. I'll be fine.”


He pulled a cellophane-wrapped candy cane from his Santa coat pocket. “It's not much, but we Santa Clauses give these to people when they make a contribution. I'd give you more, but this is the last one I have. Have a good night, and Merry Christmas, sir.”


When I got home, I took a better look at the candy cane. It was the traditional red and white kind, the same brand my wife used to buy. She loved those things. I put it on the kitchen table and went to the attic to find the empty boxes Laura wrapped years ago. She displayed them under the tree as “place-holders” until we wrapped our real gifts to each other. No presents this year, so I arranged the dummy gifts on the tree skirt the way she did. Laura and I didn't drink much, but we always had some wine before bed Christmas Eve. Out of habit, I poured two glasses.


Dammit! How silly is this? Will I ever get used to being without her? I thought about dumping the second glass down the drain but forgot about it when the tears started. I cried a lot when Laura died. I was a wreck at her funeral. It took months, but I told myself I finally had things under control. Grief counseling and a grief support group helped. According to the psychologist my doctor sent me to, I wasn't clinically depressed, but sometimes things overwhelmed me.


I forced myself to calm down. Crying didn't bring her back in the emergency room, and it certainly won't now. Looking at the tree, Laura's handmade Santa Claus decorations, and the gift boxes she wrapped brought back more memories of Christmases past. I thought about the love we shared. That always helped.


I finished my wine and turned on the outside light to check the weather. It was snowing harder now, not a storm, just steady flakes raining down, blanketing everything in quiet white. It was time for bed. Halfway up the stairs I stopped to look at our engagement photo on the wall. We were so young then, just out of high school. Well, Laura, I tried to do everything right this Christmas without you.


When I was brushing my teeth I remembered – a note to Santa, a glass of milk, and cookies. Laura did that our first Christmas together. When the kids were old enough to hold a crayon, she had them write notes too. We all did. In the kitchen I found the notepad I used for grocery lists.

“Dear Santa. All I want this year is a little more time with Laura. Since you can't give me that, bring a little happiness to someone who needs it. Merry Christmas. Harold.”​

I poured a glass of milk and put some store-bought Christmas cookies on a small plate. With everything arranged on the hearth, I went to bed.


Something woke me around three in the morning. Noises outside? Or was someone downstairs? I put on my glasses and slippers and went to investigate. It sounded like a man about my age. “Remember, watch the clock on the wall. You have about half an hour.” I turned on the stairwell light in time to see a chubby guy in a red coat and cap opening my front door to leave.


“Hey! What are you doing in my house?”


He chuckled and turned to me. “Why is it we old folks can't sleep through the night?”


“Who the hell are you?”


His playful eyes twinkled. “Who do you think I am? Not many people see me when I make my rounds. I'd love to stay and chat, but I have places I need to be. Thanks for the milk and cookies, Harold. Merry Christmas.”


By the time I got down the steps he was gone. There were eight sets of hoof prints and marks that could have been left by a sleigh in the driveway. Snow covered them as it fell.


I ran to the living room. The milk glass and plate were empty. She sat in her favorite chair next to the tree, her glass of wine on the little table next to her.


“Merry Christmas, honey.”


“Laura?”


“The essence of me, anyway.”


“Are you a ghost?”


“Ghosts haunt places. They're trapped on earth. I'm a spirit.”


“I don't understand. You look the same.”


“We look like we did the last time we appeared healthy. This is the dress I was wearing when I had my heart attack. I don't look THAT bad, do I?”


“You look wonderful. May I touch you?”


“Apparently touching doesn't work. You won't feel anything if you do, but if you sit near me I can sense you better.”


I grabbed the footstool from my reading chair and sat in front of her. She looked real, but I couldn't quite focus on her. The chair she sat in was clear, but she seemed somehow blurred. I rubbed my glasses on the hem of my pajama top. “I can't focus on you.”


“It's not your glasses, Harold. It's because it's not really the 'me' you used to know. To your eyes I'm a … for lack of a better word … representation.”


“Why are you here? HOW are you here?”


“How am I here? I'm not really, but it's the best we can do. As to why I'm here – I miss you, and you asked.”


“Laura, I don't have words to explain how I miss you. I dream about you a lot.”


“I know you do. I know how hard this is for you.”


“You do?”


“I'm a sentient entity, Harold, like all spirits. I see you. I hear you cry sometimes when you're alone.”


“I can't stand being without you.”


“Yes you can. They tell me you're doing better than many people do. You even decorated for Christmas and poured me a glass of wine.”


“Force of habit.”


“A habit created over four decades of our love, Harold. It made me very happy when you decided to do our Christmas Eve routine. I can't drink the wine, of course, but I can sort of sense the aroma, and the whole idea is so sweet. It's everything I would have wanted for Christmas if I were here. The note to Santa did it, you know. That's why you see me.”


“What?”


“I told you old traditions were good when we got married, Harold.”


“I don't understand. You're saying me writing a note to Santa got him to bring your spirit here?”


“Not exactly. See, honey, Santa isn't fake, like our parents told us when they decided we should believe the adult version of truth, but he isn't exactly real. The idea of Santa Claus and what he's supposed to stand for are what's real. It comes down to basic morality. If you're good, you get rewarded. If you're bad, you get punished. It's the same concept as most religions.”


“I believe if I follow the teachings of the church I'll go to heaven. Is that where you are?”


“I'm sure you'll think of it that way when you get here, same as I do. One guy at bingo says it's Valhalla. Others call it Paradise or Nirvana. It depends on your point of view. In Christian-based cultures people make the North Pole seem like a kind of heaven to children, a place with magical elves building toys. That's obviously false – it's uninhabitable. Santa or St. Nick or Kris Kringle are fantasy based on mythology based on moral principles, so it's all inter-related. Don't worry about it. I don't understand all of it, and I've been a spirit nearly a year in your terms. You're doing fine. You'll go through processing easily since you have someone waiting.”


“Am I dying, Laura?”


“Oh, honey! No! I didn't mean to imply that! Every living thing is, of course, but you have a number of years left here, good ones, if you'll let yourself be happy.”


“I try, but it's hard.”


“You were happy when you saw my wreaths in Church earlier.”


“The traditions we built together are important. Christmas Eve service is one of them. Your wreaths meant a little part of you was there with me.”


“You were happy when you dropped that twenty dollar bill in the charity bucket, weren't you? I know how you are about that kind of thing. You should have been happy. Your money made that Santa the top collector in the district. He'll get a nice little award for it and encouragement to do it again next year. That money brightens people's lives.”


“We always gave to charity.”


“Right. You COULD volunteer some of your time and talents with volunteer work like we used to, you know. Stop moping around. Get out of this empty house. Make memories to tell me about later.”


“I suppose I could.”


“You have some years left with the living, darling, so make the most of them. I want to watch you be happy. I'll be waiting when your time comes. Oh! I think that's my ride!”


Sleigh bells jingled faintly outside.


“I love you, Harold.”


She was gone along with the noise. Steady snow already blurred the marks from the runners and hooves. I sat on the stool in front of her empty chair and looked at the tree for a while. Then I carried her wine glass to the kitchen. A note lay on the kitchen table.

“Maybe you'll believe in Santa's magic now. I took the candy cane for Laura. I'll get it to her somehow. Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas. SC.”​

Two days later it was Sunday. Reverend Thompson sought me out after the service. “Are you doing okay, Harold?”


“Fine, Reverend. I made a New Year's resolution I'd like to talk to you about. I want to get back into the kind of volunteer work Laura and I used to do.”


“That would be wonderful! I'll give you a call next week if you like. How was your Christmas?”


“Excellent. I got a precious gift.”


“Oh? What was that?”


“Hope for the future.”

 

I can't wait till I have the time to read it.

 

WOW!!! Along with a good solid Fuck You!

Alright... maybe I was being a bit harsh. I'll make that a wiping my eyes, sniffing loudly, fuck you.

This is a non-entry so it doesn't matter in the whole scheme of things, but I think this met the theme just fine. In fact... I think you need to stop your habit of trying to give the reader advise on reading and just write your story. They stand alone on their own just fine!

This was a wonderful story of lost love and longing. It made me tear up, (The reason for the fuck you.) and think about Christmases past. I love the holidays, but also hate them for the same reason. There are always those thoughts of who is no longer there, whether living or dead. This is a great story!

Entry, non-entry, just something to write... Great job here WSF! I seriously loved this!

 

WOW! Again another fantastic story this time it tore at my heartstrings. Being reminded of long ago Christmasses brought back great memories of people in my life who are no longer here but the memories of them will never be forgotten. Your submission of this story warms my heart. Thanks for bringing back those great mem0ries.

 

Love it I'm still balling, even tho we think our spouses are a PITA, reaffirm your love every day and don't take life for granted. Bravo Bravo

 

Bumping the entries and non-entries (including my own, shamelessly) to make them more visible to the casual browser. Come on, people! Read!

 

Have a very Merry bumpy Christmas!

 

What a very touching story, one last visit to remember a lifetime, so one can live the remainder of theirs. Thanks for adding this submission, I enjoyed it thoroughly.

Hush....an alias

 

Great story. Much better than many of the bump and grind entries. Shame it's a non-entry.

 

12-hours left to vote countdown!

Hush....an alias