Christmas Day

I have gone through many things in my fifty years in London. Some you might even call tragedies. So many things changed through those years. So many things. But one thing has always stayed the same. Listen closely and you might figure out what.
    1929, three years old
    I don't remember Christmas' up until I was three years old. It had snowed all through October, November, and into December, so that on Christmas eve I was curled up under so many blankets that I wished never to rise again.
    I was awoken by my parent's smiling, somewhat weary faces, but they were glowing merrily all the same. My mother was wearing a simple red cotton dress, with her long brown hair already tied up in a blue ribbon. If someone in the street had seen her they would have never given her a second glance. But my three-year-old eyes saw how prettily that dress made her hazel eyes shine, and how graceful it made her frame look. Papa saw it too, but through my whole life he never said a thing. Mama knew it all the same though. Not because she was a proud, or haughty mother, but because of the unmistakably look of awe in his eyes, and the way he would stare at her, and then look away once she looked at him. Every time one of these exchanges happened she would look down and try not to smile.
    "Lily," my mother whispered to me softly, "wake up, it's Christmas." Her eyes shone as she said this, and papa lifted me from my bed in my little blue nursery, into his strong arms. I laid my head on his shoulders and closed my eyes, just before taking in my four squirming older brothers standing in the doorway.  Jack, the youngest, was five years old. He had the sandy blond hair of my father, and a tendency to sneak bites from our butter tin. Michael, seven, had a great tendency to lie, and was found many times lying over a broken window, a stolen ball, or simply not brushing his teeth. Richard, nine years of age, was a prankster, I spent many of my childhood years living in fear of him. Jon, the oldest, was twelve years elder. He was the worst of all. He would steel I, and my brothers things. My brothers and I always knew it was him, but he always got rid of the evidence before we could run to our parents. That was the one thing that united my brothers and I. The united dislike for our oldest brother. These facts are to my poor parent's great dismay. It was not their fault that they had raised four little monsters, for they disciplined them, and disciplined them well. But I had a theory that has always stuck with me. I think that it is because they were boys.
    Well, after papa lifted me up they saw some progress in getting to the presents they began to yell jovially for papa to move along, and mama to get started on the cinnamon buns. And for once mama and papa didn't scold them, but ran down the steps with them, papa playfully pushing my brothers back, trying to get to the presents first, and mama laughing beautifully, and saying "Honey..! Honey!"
    Well, when the boys got to the presents it was all my papa and mama could do to keep them from tearing the parcels open all at once, and papa, piercing blue eyes flashing, sandy blond hair tousled, and still warm in his nightclothes and slippers, began to grab the boys by the trousers and hoist them into the air. And as you can imagine, in all this commotion I was quickly tossed aside. After a few moments of scrambling, and trouser pulling, I padded over to the steps and leaned against the bannister. Through my bleary eyes it seamed to me that the tree looked brighter than ever before, and presents vaster. It also seemed as if the snow which I was so sick of, looked, as it hadn't in a long while, beautiful. And as I smelled the smell of mama's cinnamon rolls, heard the laughter of papa and the boys, and stared upon that beautiful shining tree, my little eyes blinked heavily twice, and then closed.
    Only after father finally got the boys calmed, and began to give out the first presents did anyone realize I was missing. And when they did my mama lifted me into her arms and sat with me by the fire. I only woke for a moment to take this all in, before dozing again against my mama.
    1933, seven years old:
    I woke early on my seventh Christmas. Even earlier than my brothers! This was going to be a special Christmas, I just knew. This was the Christmas that I would finally get my porcelain doll. My parents were not wealthy, and when I had asked for a porcelain doll for my birthday they had looked at each other with a sad look in their eyes. But this was different. This was Christmas. And everyone knew that there was a special magic at Christmas time. I tiptoed to mama and papa's room, and slowly peered through the door. Nothing. I tiptoed to papa's bedside, but before I could move to tap his shoulder he leapt from his bed and began tickling me all over, "Merry Christmas you spoiled brat!" He yelled, rousing my mother as I laughed uncontrollably. My brothers all ran in, shirts off and hair sticking all over, ashamed to be out-woken by their baby sister. They began pummeling my father, except for Jon who was sixteen now. He had long since stopped stealing after one night when he had stolen a candy bar from me, and I heard the low voices of papa and he down in the kitchen late into the night. I think that's when papa told him to become a man. He sat on the edge of the bed, and sat me on his knee and said "Merry Christmas Lily" and I didn't say anything at all I just leaned my little blond head on his warm arm, and thought, I am glad that my brother loves me.
    As we sat around the tree father didn't have to do quite so much wrangling, and trouser pulling. Jack came first, and papa handed him a large brown parcel, which he opened with gleeful shrieks to see a second-hand terrarium. Papa smiled and told him that now he could keep his lizards outside. When it was Michael's turn he received a box with brand new model cars! It had a Mersaideze Benz, and a Tororay! When it came to Richard's gift Papa told him to turn around and close his eyes. Then he reached behind that sofa, which seemed to be sitting a bit far forward, and produced a red, second-hand bike, that had probably lost its shine long ago. But thanks to a can of red paint, and a new seat, only my keen eye caught it. Richard never stopped smiling, he touched the white seat, and ran his hand along the red paint, as if it were a sacred object. I think for the first time he realized how much papa really loved him. He went over, and gave papa a big hug. Jon never gave papa hugs when he was thirteen. And Richard never did either. Until now. I wonder why that was?
    Then Papa handed Jon his parcel. And Jon undid the wrapping to find a book. At the time the title meant nothing to me, "The Pilgrim's Progress" it read in an elegant scroll. Jon stared at the book. A copy of "The Pilgrim's Progress?" In English? It looked to me as if Jon might cry. My big brother Jon, who tormented me ceaselessly for all those years about to start crying like a baby. But he didn't. And papa said to him, "Now that you're a man it's time for you to read a man's books" and all my brother could do was nod. I didn't understand why this was, at the time. But when I came of age I thought on it with fondness.
    Then it came my turn. Mama handed me a brown, rectangular parcel. Tied with the greatest care in a blue ribbon. This was it. This was the moment where I knew with all my heart that I would receive a porcelain doll. It was all I could do not to rip the wrapping to shreds. But so slowly I untied the beautiful silk ribbon, and tucked it in my pocket then I pulled back the paper to find a brown, paper box. My little hands lifted the lid and my heart dropped. There in the package was a rag doll. It had long blond hair made of yarn, and a face carefully stitched on. It was wearing a blue silk dress like all the city girls wore, and it had little red shoes, on its stockinged feet. I was silent for a moment. "Do you like it honey?" Mama asked tenderly. And I burst into tears. The look on mama's face made me wonder if she would cry too. The hurt in her eyes made my heart want to break. "Oh, no mama!" I shouted with such force, standing from my seat, "It is the most beautiful doll in the world! I never should've asked for a dumb porcelain doll when I could have a doll you made for me!" And a single tear dripped out of mama's eye at the sight of the great love I held for her, and the great hate for me to think that I might have hurt her in any way. And she hugged me close as I held my little doll. It was not true, what I said about it being the most beautiful doll in the world. It was actually quite plain. But to my little eyes it was more than I could ever ask for. And I knew that every stitch was sewn with mama's love for me. All the time she must have spent on each little stitch of the eyelashes, and of the "Wendy" embroidered on the hem of her dress. And where had she gotten the silk for the dress? The yarn for the hair? Neither were easily acquired. And my little hands clutched the doll with such love that mama began to cry too.
    1936, 10 years old
    As we sat around the table on my tenth Christmas night we had the most wonderful, and yet melancholy meal in the world. Mama had spent days preparing it, and even longer saving up for it. We had stuffed goose, and pastries, and fruit, and mashed potatoes, and hot rolls, and even some Turkish delight! I preferred to look rather than partake of this latest item, as it left an unwelcome taste in my mouth. As we clambered around the table Jack, eleven years of age now, immediately began to stuff hot rolls in his pockets. Michael caught him however, and slapped his wrist. Then before you could blink they were rolling 'round on the floor, and Papa had quite the task of break them up again. Once we were all settled around the table papa said grace.
    "...thank you for all out blessings Lord. In Jesus' name, amen." Then there was such uproar as we all clambered for the things we liked best, and mama sat back smiling at what barbarians we were, but scolding us al the way- until Michael spilled his cup, and Richard began to scold him quite fiercely. Finally we had again gotten ourselves settled, and we busied ourselves with eating, and sometimes jumping into the conversation. But in the back of our minds we all were trying to suppress the horrid news that tomorrow would bring. Tomorrow Jon was leaving for college. For four years we would only see him twice every year. I knew that he was thinking the same thing, for he was quieter than ever before. I looked across the table at the sad look hidden deep in my brother's perpetually mischievous blue eyes. He looked at me and smiled. But it wasn't a real smile. We looked at each other for a moment, and our eyes silently exchanged the message, I will miss you. Then we both looked up as papa yelled for us to "please hurry up and pass the rolls!"
    Papa looked a bit different I had noticed as of late. He was starting to develop a few gray hairs in his sandy head, and his belly was beginning to protrude a bit, as is common with most middle aged men. He had also learned to be slightly more forceful, which was probably because for the last four years he has been raising three little monsters. Sure they weren't so little anymore, Jack was twelve, Michael fourteen, and Richard sixteen, but they were monsters all the same. They hadn't changed since they were young.
    That night as I went to bed I heard the unmistakable sound of something sliding under my door. But in my bleary state I settled further down under my blankets and paid it no mind. But when I rose the next morning to a house with one less person in it, I found a note wrapped in brown paper. Inside it read the most wonderful thing in the world.
    Dear Lily,
    I will miss you so much while-
You know, I don't think I would like to share that one thing. But you can know that I have a very special brother, who loves me very much.
    1940, fourteen years of age
    Everything is changing. I thought to myself as I stared out on the snowy streets and sidewalks of London. My best friend Poly stood behind me, tying my hair in a bow. Poly was a jew who had fled from Germany a few years ago in light of the war. She and I shared my little blue bedroom, which was getting tighter by the moment. We loved it all the same though, and spent many a night whispering under the covers. She was a rich girl- or had been, so she wore an elegant blue dress her parents had bought for her, the same color as her eyes, with a matching blue ribbon in her long, raven black hair. Her clothes took up well over half the space in the closet, and I had to admit that it did make me feel a twinge of jealousy. I still hadn't finished stitching my dress, and it lay in a ball on my bed. I had but a few hours to get it ready. Poly finished the braid, which looked rather nice, as I had begun to let my darkening blonde hair grow longer. To my surprise I had rather curly hair when it was long enough to see it. Poly went over to her vanity, another thing from her parents, and began to do her hair. I made my way over to the window seat, and sat criss cross, needle in one hand, dress in the other.
    This has been a rough year for mama. It started when I was supposed to have a baby sister in October. The whole family had been so excited, preparing for it like crazy. But then the doctor told us that the baby's heart hadn't grown fast enough to keep up with its body, and that baby Hope was dead. Then she started having fatigue, and trouble breathing. But mama pushed on, cleaning, and cooking, and decking the halls. Mama radiated Christmas joy! Even as I began to notice her growing wearier. Her body looked too heavy for her to hold. Sometimes she would stop mid sweep and lean against a wall to breath. Then I began to notice a few blotches of red on her arms. I wondered what this all meant for mama.
    Snap! My thread broke. I tried to tie it best I could, but it was no use, I would have to resew the hem. Poly giggled, "You are seriously the worst seamstress I have ever known!" She laughed. I threw my pincushion at her. "Oh Lily, don't be such a Scrooge, it's Christmas!" And with that, she walked out our door, and slid down the bannister singing "Jingle Bells." Maybe she was right....
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