Day 6 in Countdown to Christmas

In keeping with nostalgic memories of Christmases past, I would like to share a story from my childhood with you today. As with most children, the spirit of giving was lost on me. But like most things in life, a traumatic incident will occur, embedding itself in our memories forevermore. It happened to me when I was eleven years old.

“I can’t wait for Christmas morning,” I twirled about the kitchen like a sugar plum fairy while my mother rolled gingersnaps. The house smelled wonderful, sugar and spice and everything nice. And from the living room, the heady scent of fresh pine drifted, making me delirious with delight. Outside, snow blanketed the ground, flurries swirling down on the pine branches like spools of angel hair. A white Christmas, I rubbed my hands together with glee, snatching up a cookie on the pan. The spices melted on my tongue, causing me to twirl all the faster.
“You know,” my mom looked up, her cheeks rosy from the oven, flour coating her blue apron. “Christmas isn’t all about presents under the tree. It’s about the spirit of giving and the birth of Baby Jesus. Didn’t you hear Father John’s sermon on Sunday, saying it’s better to give than receive?”
“I heard him,” I said, stealing another peek out the window to see how much snow had fallen. “It’s the same one he gives every year.”
Hearing the mailman, I ran to the door and opened it. A cold gush of air blew in, the howling wind swishing through the towering pines. The mailman handed me a stack of mail and bid me a Merry Christmas. “You too,” I all but slammed the door in his face, noticing the first letter in the stack had my name on it. Running off into the house, belting out a verse or two of Deck the Halls, I ripped the red envelope. It was from my aunt. Shaking out the card, not even bothering to read the verse, I frowned, turning it upside down. “No money, no green stuff to buy a gift,” I tossed the card on the table.
Entering the kitchen, my mom was pulling out another tray of cookies. Snatching one up, burning my fingers, I was too excited to feel the blister. Dashing off, I popped it into my mouth after waving it in the air to cool. Putting on my coat and scarf, gloves and boots, I yelled into the kitchen, “I’m going outside to see how deep the snow is. Be back in a few minutes.”
The snow was really coming down, causing my spirits to soar. A bright red cardinal perched in the fleecy pine tree, pretty as you please. I smiled, my mind on how many gifts I’d find under the tree come Christmas morning. Excitement mounted. But suddenly, I heard a door creak from across the street. Looking up, snapping out of my revelry, I noticed the old lady that lived in the house on the terrace, all stooped over with age, her gnarled fingers probing to get her mail out of the box. She wore a black cardigan sweater over her bony shoulders, her unkempt hair as white as the snow. I shuddered, thinking she looked like a witch. Feeling cold, I went back inside, the scent of cinnamon and spices wafting through the house. Try as I might, the image of the old woman next door flashed through my head. Did anyone care about her? Did anyone bake cookies for her or buy her a Christmas gift? Her husband had died years ago and no one ever came to visit. Something struck me and an idea blossomed in my head. Shedding off my coat and snow gear, I tore into the kitchen.
“I want to bake some cookies for old lady Thomas,” I said, my heart all a flutter. “I want to give her a present for Christmas.”
“That’s the spirit,” my mom said, her lips puckering into a pout. “But don’t call her old lady Thomas. That’s not nice. Her name is Mrs. Thomas.”
“Whatever,” I said, my mind on my mission.

An hour later, bundled once more in my winter snow gear, gingersnaps neatly packed on a paper plate, garnished with foil wrapping and green and red ribbons, I gingerly walked across the cobblestone street to my neighbor’s house on the hill. Taking the steps slowly, hanging onto the railing for dear life with my free hand, I got to the door and rang the bell. A smile teased my lips, anticipating her look of surprise.
The door creaked open and there she stood, hand on her hip, looking anything like what I’d imagined. Her mouth curled in an ugly frown. “What do you want, little girl? Can’t you read the sign? It says no trespassing, and that means you.”
“But…” I stammered, my heart in my throat. “I’m not selling anything, honestly. I live across the street and baked these cookies for you for a Christmas gift. I…”
My words were cut off by the cold banging of the door. I stood there, the tears spilling down my cheek. Turning on my heels, I started down her front steps. But not really watching where I was going, I missed the last step, tripped flat on my face in the snow and landed on my cookies. I heard them crunch. The foil ripped and they were all askew in the snow, bits and pieces of broken cookies along with my broken heart.

An hour later, after a hot cocoa and a good cry, my mom went to the window and looked out and gasped. “Come quick! Hurry!
“What?” I looked, following her gaze to old lady Thomas’s house.
“Don’t you see it?”
“I saw nothing. The snow had stopped falling and looking at that house on the hill made my stomach hurt. “I don’t see anything.” I turned on my heels.
My mother stopped me. “Right there where you fell. See?”
“I looked but saw nothing to get excited about. I shrugged. “What do you see?”
“Your imprint in the snow, the image of an angel.”