Mother's Stories

I sat at the base of the tree with my legs crossed. The flashing lights flooded the room with reds and greens. Tinsel wrapped around the branches. I studied every ornament and relived the memory slowly in my head. 

Popsicle sticks glued into a triangle with a small pom pom on the top. Sloppy green paint coated the entire thing. I was seven when I made it.

A framed photo of me and my older sister, Wendy, with Santa. 1990. 

A glittery pine cone from kindergarten.

A hand print from my first Christmas. 

I haven’t made an ornament in eight years but my mom refused to use the generic ones. “It gives it personality,” she would explain. Her favorite pastime was going through each one with her stories. “Remember when you made this?” “Oh, I just adore this one!” I had stopped listening years ago.

We’d bake cookies on Christmas Eve. The scents of cinnamon and gingerbread would levitate throughout the kitchen. Wendy would always sneak one and blame me for the crime. 

“Santa’s watching,” my mom would say, shake a finger at us and smile. She’d always have frosting somewhere on her face from stealing one too. Seemed stupid then, but now I craved her cookies.

The oven is empty today and I ran out of milk. 

I glanced at my phone. Three forty three. Still no calls. Wendy was away at college and didn’t want to come back for the holiday break. There was nothing here for her anyway.

I felt a tear fall down my cheek and I wiped it away quickly as if the speed of my hands could dictate less emotion. 

There were only a few presents under the tree but my eyes focused on one. It was wrapped in red and white paper, striped with silver and had floating candy canes with sunglasses on them. Bright red ribbon and a frilly bow on top. mom loved to wrap gifts almost as much as she loved telling stories. It was one of her specialties. 

To Wyatt, love Mom. In her handwriting. She drew a smile in the corner of the tag. 

I could feel water build in the corners of my eyes. I held my breath and reached for the box. It felt heavy in my grasp. It was about a foot wide, as tall as my palms. It was tradition to open one gift the night before Christmas. Part of me wanted to leave it wrapped forever. Something about opening them made it real. 

I let out a shaky breath as my fingers snuck under the folds of the paper. I let them glide underneath and popped the tape off. Tears were falling down my face, but my hands were busy. I tore off the paper and held the brown box with trembling hands. I sighed and looked at the family photo hanging in the center of the living room. Mom, Wendy, Rufus and I. We were small, but always together. That was until Rufus ran away in the summer and Wendy went to college this past September. Then mom got sick. I convinced Wendy to come home for Thanksgiving, but she left before the weekend was over.

“I can’t see mom like that,” she said, “It’s depressing.”

“It’s just a cold,” I told her.

“No, it’s more than just a cold.” 

Wendy was right. As she usually is. 

Four days after Thanksgiving, we lost her.

<Call me when you can.> I typed on my phone. I hesitated before sending it. Wendy came back for the funeral, but part of her was gone too. She had promised to come back for Christmas. I told her I didn’t want to be alone. Uncle Dan, mom’s only sibling, planned on staying with me until school was over, but the holidays were important to his family too. He’d be here in January. 

Uncle Dan was a strange character. He was younger than mom by six years. He had horses and goats and a chicken coop he built himself. His wife gave him three daughters, all who were untamed in nature and bite. They were wild and free, living by the rise and set of the sun and went where the wind told them to go. The house was paid for another year, and if I didn’t go to college, I’d move into Uncle Dan’s hut. He had an RV in the driveway set up for me already. It was more than enough motivation to apply to every single college in the nation. 

I thought back to last year. mom burnt the ham and Wendy brought her boyfriend of the season. He was quiet but his face spoke the words his mouth didn’t. He was funny to watch and probably relieved that he didn’t have to meet our father. I didn’t even get to meet my father. Wendy’s boyfriend was in my grade and we rode the same bus, but we didn’t share a single class together. He was one of those smart kids with advanced placement classes. He spilt gravy on his plaid shirt and excused himself to spend too long in the bathroom. mom told stories about our childhood. Wendy complained nonstop. I sat at the head of the table, playing with my food and feeding Rufus scraps. 

Rufus was a good boy, for the most part. He tried at least. He often got into the trash and proudly paraded the garage down the halls. He had a bad habit of chewing shoes and eating socks. He was a mix of sorts, a mutt who followed me home from school one day. The vet believed he was a Labrador possibly mixed with a Husky. He had one bent ear and a crooked tooth. He liked to nibble my toes in the early morning. All my socks had holes in them. 

I glanced out the window. It was a sleepy evening. A blanket of snow over the streets. Flakes floated down and swirled in the gentle breeze. The streetlights were on as the sun began to set. It was quiet outside. 

I noticed the box in my hands. It was a simple cardboard box with the flaps taped down. I pulled at the loose corners of the box and opened it. I took in a deep breath and looked inside. I saw a blue binder, a scrapbook with a picture of me on the cover. On top of that was a note. 

“So you can tell your own stories,” it read. A sob escaped from the back of my throat. 

I took the book out of the box. ‘18 Years of Wyatt,’ read the cover. My cheeks were wet as I went through the pages. I ran my fingers over the photos and read every quote. I took my time with each page, soaking up every detail and revisiting every memory. 

My dance recital in the second grade. 

The time I played a tree in my middle school play. 

My belt ceremony for karate. 

Birthdays and holidays. Every major life event. At my fingertips. If only my mom were here to tell me the stories she deemed fit for the pages.