CNL: Stories
reprinted from the Compost NewsLetter
Lammas 1993:
Season's Greetings
by Wyatt J. Bonikowski
In the early morning hours, the dull green tree sagged under the weight of sparkling tinsel, heavy bobbles, shiny, sweet candy canes, and strings of multi-colored lights that danced on the scrawny limbs. Reflections of reds and greens played on the gray window pane, a display to entertain the vacant streets. Scattered needles carpeted the floor beneath, accompanied only by the splashes of smudged light that tripped along the floor. Outside the harsh wind blew. and the dangling decorations clinked together in the draft.
Somewhere in the silent house a door opened, creaked on its hinges. A young child shuffled from his bedroom, clothed in yellow pajamas, the stockings on his feet hanging over his toes. He stood at the top of the stairs, rubbing his eyes, and he looked down at the lonely tree. The small branches hung low, nearly touching the floor, and in the draft a red ball dropped to the carpet, rolling in a circle. The child had decorated it all by himself. He had found the tree discarded behind his house, and had dragged it through the snow and had set it up inside. He had pulled the cardboard boxes marked "X-mas" down from the attic and had hung all the decorations. In the bottom of one of the boxes he had found a small dough heart with the words "To Mommy and Daddy, with love" inscribed on the back. He had hung it on the tree, toward the center.
He had forgotten. How long ago had it been? Last night he had a dream. He saw a woman with beautiful eyes and a warm smile bend down, and she picked him up, holding him tightly. She had tears in her eyes. Over her shoulder, the young boy could see a man standing, eyes hardened against emotion, looking intently at the woman holding the child. The woman held him close to her, sobbing, saying "I'm sorry, honey, I'm sorry."And then the dream was over.
He did not know why he had dreamed that or who the man and woman were. He only knew that he had awakened with a word or two on the tip of his tongue.
The presents still had not come. For the past few days, ever since it had started to snow and he had set up the tree, he had come out of his room early in the morning and had looked down the stairs at the tree. He had been hoping to see gifts surrounding the base of the tree, stacked in mountainous heaps. But the tree had stood alone. The boy did not know why he thought there would be gifts; it just seemed natural, seemed to fit the equation: the snow plus the decorations plus gifts equaled...what? The word was just beyond his reach.
He started down the steps, being careful not to trip on the sagging toes of his stockings. He clung tightly to the banister with both hands, taking one step at a time, until he reached the bottom. Standing in front of the tree made him feel warm and happy inside. He felt safe and secure, knowing this was a time of peace and good cheer. In his mind the hint of a song played like a music box.
He remembered from long ago that the tree was to remain standinq until the presents came. Without a tree there would be no presents. He hoped they would come.
In the early morning hours, birds twittered and chirped in the growing daylight. The snow had long since melted, giving way to a day filled with sunshine and cool breeze. The tree stood in the middle of the living room, its brown needles brittle and dry. Decorations hung from the sagging branches, and a string of red and green lights buzzed in their sockets. Discarded balls and broken candy canes littered the base of the tree along with a pile of splintered needles. Outside the cool breeze blew across the vacant street, and a draft stirred the fragile tree.
Somewhere in the silent house a door opened, creaked on its hinges. A young child shuffled from his bedroom, clothed in yellow pajamas, the oversized stockings on his feet dangling over his toes. He stood at the top of the stairs, rubbing his eyes, and looked down at the tree. The presents still had not arrived. Ever since the first week with no presents, his hopes had been slowly dying. Now he was not sure if the presents would ever come. Why did he think they would? He could not remember.
Last night he had a dream. The same woman from all his other dreams was there, but this time she sang a sweet song, a familiar song, a song that made him warm and happy inside. But standing at the top of the stairs, he could not remember the simple tune. He wished he could remember, but seeing the dead tree, he did not think it mattered any more.
He started down the steps, careful not to trip over his oversized stockings. When he was half-way down the stairs, he stopped. The lights on the tree looked strange, buzzing and blinking. He took a few more steps and heard a crack. One of the light bulbs had shattered, exposing its electric socket. The boy stepped down the remainder of stairs and walked over to the tree. Another light bulb shattered, and a spark caught a dead branch, and the tree ignited. The crackling blaze engulfed the tree, smothering it in yellow-orange heat.
The child stood staring in wonder at the blaze, the flames reflected in the pools of his eyes. He remembered this happening last year and knew that the season was over.
The tune from his dream popped into his head, and he began to hum quietly beneath the roar of the fire, smiling to himself. The woman's face kept appearing in his mind, and her name was on the tip of his tongue.
He hoped that next year the presents would come.