Memory Tree

I got up from the computer where I’d been working on our annual Christmas letter.

There were a lot of people on our list who didn’t know about our disastrous year, and I was struggling to put it all down.

How could I say our house had been destroyed in a record-breaking flood, that we’d been living in rentals ever since, that construction delays would prevent us from getting back home for Christmas? It all sounded so pathetic. Nothing to put me or anyone else in a holiday mood.

I glanced at the bare walls of our tiny apartment. Normally this time of year I took down boxes from the back of the closet and decorated our house with wreaths, candles, twinkling lights and nativity sets. Not now. All our things were gone, buried in tons of mud.

I thought of the glass-blown teapot that had belonged to my great-grandmother, the brightly plumed toucan that we’d picked up on a mission trip to Belize, the Alaskan nativity set with the wise men in mukluks and parkas and Joseph and Mary in an igloo.

But the biggest loss was that of all the construction-paper ornaments our sons had made when they were young. Every time I took them out of the tissue paper, I pictured the boys sitting at their kiddie-sized table, cutting and past­ing, chubby hands making bells and stars and Santas, sprinkling on glitter and gluing on yarn. Nothing I ever bought in a store could match the love that went into those precious keepsakes.

Of course I was grateful we’d survived the flood and that we had a temporary place to live. But Christmas this year wasn’t going to be warm and nostalgic. No tidings of comfort and joy.

The phone rang. I hesitated. I’d promised myself I’d finish the Christmas letter today. Caller ID said it was Mary Ann, an old friend. No need to pretend with her that this Christmas would be as happy as any other.

“Hey, girlfriend,” her sunny voice came through the line, “I’m glad I caught you at home. I’ve been unpacking my Christmas things. Trees don’t grow big enough to fit all these ornaments. I want you to have some.”

“That’s sweet of you,” I said. How could I explain that her old ornaments wouldn’t be like my old ones? They wouldn’t be my memories. “I don’t know where I’d put any of it in this little place. I’m in such a funk. I wish the calendar would jump ahead to January and skip Christmas altogether.”

“Hang in there,” she said. “I know it’s tough, but remember your friends want to help. Just tell us what we can do. Give us the fun of giving.”

I hung up and went back to the computer. Perhaps that’s what had been hardest about these last few months, reassuring everyone we were fine, that we didn’t need any help. I was the one who liked to be the giver. If this had happened to Mary Ann, I would have been the first to give her the toucan from Belize or that nativity igloo from Alaska. What did I have to give anyone now?