Christmas Mornings

I sit at my window, staring out at the snow-covered street beyond. It only takes a few moments for my breath to fog the glass over, blurring my perception of the world as the warm vapors and cold air mix. I can hear my family just beginning to stir in the lower levels of the house, up early to discover what goodies Santa brought overnight. 

I lean my head back and close my eyes. Christmas mornings just aren’t the same anymore. 

“I have something for you,” the sweet voice whispered in my ears. I cracked my young eyes open and looked at her. Grandma stood at the end of the guest bed, small present in hand. I jumped up and grabbed the box from her. 

Every year, on Christmas morning, Grandma would wake me up first with a special present. It was usually something small, but I cherished the tiny trinket every time. 

“Come on!” she spoke after I’d ripped the wrapping paper and tore the box open. “It’s time for a story.  I followed her downstairs, sleepy-eyed, and wrapped in a thick blanket. She already had a small fire burning in the fireplace and two cups of hot chocolate at the ready. I joined her in front of the flames as she started weaving her whispered stories. 

Grandma grew up in a time of segregation and lived in an area of Mississippi known for lynching—her stories usually included harrowing experiences that I could only tremble at the thought of. “They appeared as soon as she sun went down, dozens of them.” she began. The shadow of the flames licked her cheeks as she told me of the time her parents hid her in the hayloft when the Ku Klux Klan burned a cross in their yard. “I didn’t make a sound, even though the hay was itchy. I waited until Mom crawled up the ladder and told me it was safe. Only then did I climb out of the hay and rejoin my family.”

“Are you telling scary stories again?” my father spoke, finally awake.

I jumped up and hugged Dad. “True stories,” Grandma clarified. 

We spent the morning getting ready for church as the rest of the family woke up. 

I watched the car drive down the snow-covered road as my family chattered. Grandma sat next to me, quiet, listening. She was the first female deacon in the Southern Baptist Church, one of the largest churches in Oxford, Mississippi. When we got out of the car, her congregation greeted her with wide smiles and tight hugs. Our entire family was treated like well-known friends—something that always amazed me. Her congregation was enormous, but everyone knew Grandma, and she seemed to know all of them as well.

After the service, we stuck around at Grandma’s request. After each service, she would stay so she could talk to any members that needed someone to listen. Grandma was always calm and listened fully, and offered her sage advice with a loving, confident smile. 

It was a few Christmas mornings later that I began to notice a change. Grandma had lost the spring in her step, and climbing the stairs to wake me up early took longer than usual. I had thought she was just tired. 

The next Christmas morning, I realized I was wrong. When we were getting ready to attend her service, she had trouble standing up. The light still gleamed in her eyes, but her body didn’t want to listen to her; her muscles rebelled, causing her to need help getting to her feet. I asked my Dad what was wrong, and he pulled me to the side in turn. “She...has Parkinson’s Disease,” Dad said with a quiver in his voice. I didn’t know what that meant, but with the sorrow that encased him, I knew it had to be bad. 

The Christmas morning after that, we didn’t stay with Grandma. Dad shook me from my slumber, and bleary-eyed, I got in the car. We arrived at an assisted living home, and Grandma was waiting for us. But she felt distant, and her hands shook for no reason at all. That confident smile she always wore was gone. 

Next Christmas, she was gone. 

“We’re opening presents,” a familiar voice says quietly. I spin around, startled. Dad stands at the door, pleasant smile on his face, but there’s also a hint of something else—perhaps confusion for why I’m not downstairs yet. 

“I’ll be down in a minute,” I nod. Dad throws me a thumbs up and pulls the door shut behind him. 

I look down at the small present in my hands. The paper is taped unevenly, and a little lopsided, but I don’t mind. It’s my best, and that’s all Grandma would ever want from me. I keep a careful hold on it as I stand and exit the room.