The Wooden Figurine

Outside was a different world from where Meggie sat, perched on a once-loved bench next to a window that should glow red and green by now. Her heart simply wasn’t in the festive mood. In truth, she was lonely. 

As she peered through the frosted window, a lone snowflake drifted from a dark sky as if to say hello, I am alone too. But, of course, a snowflake isn’t alone for where one lazily spins, so too does another not far off. Meggie read once that snowflakes were all unique and she imagined a lone figure sitting in the clouds high above her delicately working pieces of frost into beautiful pieces of art that would be tromped on or melted down. Perhaps that creator knows loneliness too. 

The door to the house across the street swung open, and with it a dazzling blaze of light that illuminated happy faces swaying to once sweet music. A couple she hadn’t noticed standing at the door nuzzled together waiting to be let in. They looked cheerful as they stepped into the warm glow of that festive house.

Meggie had once known happiness and the joy of the holidays. A year was not long enough to forget. A year also meant the past was too near, and it stung her to look at.

Her neighbor, a kind woman named Emily, glanced across the street and, even from the dark recess of her nook, Meggie could make out the concern and pity weighing down Emily’s face as she looked towards Meggie’s dark house. 

With one quick motion, Meggie drew the curtain. She ignored the ache of her heart as she did this and turned away to spend the holiday the way she wanted. The way she needed: alone.

The walk to her bedroom felt long as she passed photographs she tried not to look at. A mausoleum of memory that threatened to pull her deep, deep down into a place she wouldn’t recover from again.

But, oh how she longed to look at his face, to run her fingers over the rough contours of his cheek. She’d never again complain about the way she hated when he shaved. She’d smile when he loaded the dishes the wrong way and laugh when he left tools and wood shavings littered around the house in little mounds. But most of all, she’d never, ever complain about being alone again.

Meggie wiped the single tear from her cheek and closed the door to her bedroom – or what was now her bedroom. Truth was, her bedroom was down the hall, but it was filled with him. His scent. His clothes. His essence. The room she turned to now was free of all of that. A guest room she alone had put together. Once, she’d been quite proud of it. Excited for all the things she’d love in a room but couldn’t convince him to put in theirs. This room should make her happy. Instead, it made her feel empty.

Slowly, she attended to the nightly routine she’d grown accustomed to. Brush teeth; floss. Comb hair; braid. Change clothes; bed. 

Slipping under the sheets she sighed with heavy relief. She’d made it another day. One more day. Tomorrow she’d do it again. As she closed her eyes, she tried not to let the pain that thought brought with it sink in too deep.

Her eyes had just fluttered closed when a knock at the front door sounded. Meggie shot bolt upright, her head swimming from the fast motion. Who could that be, she wondered. For no one was set to visit her. She’d made it perfectly clear, or she thought she had.

It was a quick walk to the door, much faster than going to bed had been. Was it her heart thundering the words, lonely don’t want to be lonely, that caused her feet to move quicker? Meggie scolded herself; she didn’t want people to visit. To look at her the way her neighbor had. Like she was broken. Like she was lost. It would only confirm what she already knew. That everyone had moved on and they were just waiting for her to do the same. She wouldn’t.

When she opened the door, there was no one there except for snowfall turned heavy. Seeing that white, untouched landscape sent a thrill through her. His name curved her lips along with a plea to go sledding in the first snow like they used to. 

She clamped her mouth shut and moved to close the door when it caught on a box.

Strange, Meggie thought. But then again, perhaps someone had dropped off a gift determined to ignore her Scrooge mentality despite her best efforts. Meggie grabbed the box and marveled at its lightness. It was like picking up a snowflake, and it was wrapped like one too. Shimmery paper that shifted and glinted with the reds, blues, and golds of the neighbor’s lights in a pattern that seemed to shift and change with her movements.

Meggie closed the front door and moved to the sofa. For one moment she stared at the present. 

They always opened gifts here. 

Her heart flared with longing. It hurt.

Meggie closed her eyes, reached out with her fingers, and before she knew it she’d torn the wrapping. When she opened her eyes, a gasp punctured the still room. 

Under the beautiful wrapping was an equally stunning box made of mahogany wood. She reached out, tracing the thin, complex pattern. There was a gold hook keeping the lid firmly shut.

For a moment she was stunned, who could have left such a gift and how could something made of wood be so light? 

Another knock had her heart leaping from her chest. Meggie glanced toward the door though she knew the sound had not come from there.

Knock, knock.

Meggie turned to the box and her heart thundered an unfamiliar tune as she flipped the lid open. 

She had to blink a few times to see through the buildup of tears filling her eyes. She didn’t know how he’d done it, but somehow, she knew that this was his doing. Her Paul’s. 

With gentle but trembling fingers, Meggie lifted the figurine out of the box. Despite the box's lightness, this figure was sturdily built, and as her fingers traced the swoop of hair, the curve of cheeks, a button nose, and firm shoulders, she also felt the cold metal of a windup on the back. With a swell in her chest she’d always associated with a bird taking flight, Meggie gave the gear a twist and held her breath. 

Nothing happened. 

Her chest deflated and a bitterness took root. One she didn’t like giving space to. It wasn’t Paul’s fault he was gone. He didn’t choose to leave her alone. 

Meggie set the wooden figure down and stood. It was time for bed. 

Clank.

Meggie turned with a start thinking the figurine had fallen but when she looked back, he was in the same place as before. Only… had it grown? 

She squinted at the object and jumped back when it got larger and larger. Then with a whirl the windup on the back began spinning at a dizzying speed. Meggie felt trapped between fear and awe, the urge to run and the desire to stay. Curiosity won out and so Meggie watched in quite captivation as the figure grew and grew until it was as tall as she was. 

“I’m dreaming,” she whispered, for it was the only explanation. Paul had been a woodworker, an artist of beautiful hand-crafted things. He hadn’t been magical, not in any real sense at least. Magic didn’t exist like this. Yet, how could she explain what was right before her eyes?

As if her voice triggered something in the wind-up toy, he turned and Meggie let out a yelp of surprise. Though in truth, she wasn’t sure why the wooden man moving was more surprising than him growing to life-size. 

The woodman moved again, stepping toward her, his joints creaking ever so softly, adding to the whirring hum of the windup on his back. Meggie briefly thought to be afraid as he stepped toward her, but she wasn’t. There was something familiar in the shape of the figure's face, in the essence that he radiated. 

Then, though she felt stupid doing so, she whispered through a too-tight throat, “Paul?”

There was so much hope laced into that one word. Her love's name. A name she hadn’t spoken aloud in one year. Her eyes brimmed with tears until the wooden figure was blurry, but she saw enough to note the way the figure moved toward her and dipped his head in a rigid, wooden manner. 

The tears fell and his wood fingers, delicately carved from a wooden hand, reached up and roughly wiped the tears away. She laughed and the sound ripped from her with a delighted joy. She swore the woodman beamed. 

It was so silent in the house except for the whirring of his gear that Meggie thought at first that she was imagining the music drifting from outside. She looked up into eyes that were a deep blue she'd often become lost in, and then before she knew it she was swaying in the wooden man’s arms. Meggie leaned her cheek on his chest and breathed in the smell of shavings and stain. Her next breath came out a shaky sob. 

The wooden man slowed their dance to a stop and she let him lead her down the hall where she’d just moments ago walked alone. He pointed to different pictures on the wall, their memories, and she imagined her Paul telling the stories of those days they’d shared. She smiled until she realized where she was being led.

Her bedroom door loomed before her. Not the guest room she pretended was hers, but their bedroom door. 

Meggie shook her head, a rush of movement that made her dizzy.

“I can’t go in there,” she whispered, but the figurine set a comforting hand on her lower back, and so she reached out and opened the door. When it swung open, she was hit with the same scent of wood and stain mixed with her perfume she’d stopped wearing. 

She didn’t want to enter the room but – just as in life – he gave her a nudge. 

Meggie stepped into the room. 

The wooden man stepped in after her then led her to the drawer. She shouldn’t have been surprised that the figurine knew what was inside and that she’d been too afraid to read it. 

She shook her head, no.

The figurine opened the drawer and drew out the still-sealed letter. 

Meggie thought she’d faint when the letter was placed in her hand. She surely couldn’t open it, let alone read it with how much she was shaking. But then, as if by the same magic as the wooden figurine, the letter was suddenly unfolded and displayed before her, steady for her to read. 

So, Meggie did.

My Love,

I know you will struggle with my loss for we spent so much time as one. We used to joke about being too close and now I fear it was no laughing matter. It is my hope that you have moved on and you find this note silly but it is my knowing you that lead me to take precautions. So, if it is as I’ve assumed, then you’ve met the wooden clockwork man I built for you. Don’t ask me how it works, just know it took a lot of searching. 

Meggie, my dear, I know you have hidden yourself away. Locked out the memories and likely steered those who love you to other doors. It doesn’t make you weak to miss me. It doesn’t make you selfish to move on. 

Remember me, remember our life together. But live. I beg you.

And I’ll always be with you. 

Love,

Paul

A tear fell from her cheek smearing the P on her love's name. 

The clockwork man lifted her chin.

Meggie fell into his chest and let herself remember their life and their love. Paul was right, she’d let herself shutter away. Afraid to move forward and afraid to look back. It was her fear that kept her alone, nothing else. Tomorrow, she thought, tomorrow she’d try just a little harder than she had the days before. For now, she stayed wrapped in the woodman’s arms for what felt like forever. Until her eyes grew heavy. 

When Meggie woke, she reached from her side of the bed to Paul’s, expecting to feel the solid weight of him. When she didn't feel him there the familiar ache settled in and she curled in on herself. A crunch made her shift upright. There, tucked against her was the wooden clockwork man, small and delicate once more lying atop the letter. 

Her heart swelled. It hadn’t been a dream, but she also knew deep down that whatever magic the wooden figure had held was all gone now. This truth left her with a bittersweet feeling. 

Meggie stood, grabbing up the figurine as she did, and pressed him to her chest. She picked up her phone and dialed a number. The voice on the other end was exactly how she remembered it.

“Meggie? Is that you?”

“Yes, Emily it is me. I wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas.” Her voice shook, trembling with fear. Fear of moving forward, fear of staying put, fear of looking back. So much fear. She clutched the figurine so tightly that her knuckles went white. 

“Merry Christmas to you too. I know you wished to be alone but if you change your mind dinner is a six.”

“Thank you, Emily.” Meggie paused, the urge to decline heavy on her tongue, but then she looked into the dark blue of the wooden man’s eyes, and she changed her mind.