December 16, 2015
When I lift an ornament from its box or niche to decorate my Christmas tree, almost every one carries a special memory:
the ornaments given to me by my Mother from my childhood trees, some going back to when I was six or seven;
the glass balls, red and gold, that I bought at the Navy Exchange for the first tree Bill and I had together in Norfolk;
the salt-dough ornaments made by our children in early school years, so heavy that I have to find a sturdy branch for them;
the fabric ornaments–angels, dancers, and the main characters from the Wizard of Oz– lovingly crafted by my Aunt Edna;
the fragile straw stars, yul buks, and tomtens from Sweden;
the special collectors’ items from museums, gifts from my brother;
the small tokens of the trips Bill and I took together–the clay toucan from Costa Rica, the glass fish from the Virgin Islands, the pewter compass for the North Cape of Europe.
Each one I take up in my hands and hang tenderly on the tree, remembering all the love behind each one. The tree shimmers with love and echoes with memories.
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