A Baker's Dozen of Christmas What-Ifs

American Lady

The Twelve Prompts of Christmas - Prompt #8

Finally. You have a minute to yourself. You pour yourself something to drink, grab a blanket, and curl up to gaze mindlessly at the Christmas tree. Your eyes zero in on one particular ornament. One that you've seen year after year after year. But...there's something you notice this year. Something about it you've never seen before. How could you have missed it? And now that you finally "see" that one little detail, everything makes sense.

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Finally, a moment to myself! Curled around a mug of hot cocoa, I snuggled into a corner of the couch and gazed mindlessly at my Christmas tree.

First year living on my own. The workmen had left for their Christmas break, not to be seen again until January. It was kinda sweet how they got into hanging ornaments on the tree while I made them a farewell cuppa. But now, the silence pressed in.

At first, taking over the family house had been difficult. There were so many memories captured here, and not all of them pleasant. But the water damage to the basement had left an unrelenting demand of mold. So I dipped into the fire insurance fund and began the renovations so sorely needed.

As I let the dazzle of colored lights lull my senses, my eyes zeroed in on a particular ornament. I guess it must have been in with the others. Had we been hanging it every year? Somehow I hadn't noticed. But it tugged at my attention. Then I really saw it. How had I not seen it before?

It was an American Lady butterfly. Ronnie Sack had made it for me so many Christmases ago. I didn't think I was anybody to him, so this gift was always puzzling. In high school, we were both so busy pursuing our arts, me with ballet, Ronnie with the violin, that our connection never deepened. But I was crazy over him, so I held on to it.

But had I really seen it?

The presentation might seem gauche to some, but to me it was the epitome of elegance. The butterfly was pinned within a small Balkan Sobranie tin, suspended from the tree on a red ribbon. The outside was like a nineteenth century etching, with bold calligraphy. Inside, the butterfly was forever halted mid-flight.

Ronnie was a person of very few words. He's the one who handed in a single paragraph for the senior English midterm essay and got an A+. He wouldn't let anybody see his essay, but I like to think it went something like this:

Johann Sebastian Bach told his stories with music. When I play his Concerto in D-minor tonight at the Christmas concert, I will express everything that this author's oeuvre says to me.

I gazed at the American Lady. She seemed always about to lift off and flutter away. But I could feel her confinement. She was trapped, and would never be free. Surrounded by elegance, she was herself an icon of beauty, but she could not fly.

Suddenly, I "heard" what Ronnie was saying. This butterfly—she is me. Ronnie couldn't know the trap I had been in all through my growing up. I didn't tell anybody. I just couldn't bear the thought of living in a broken home, so I kept his secret. It was an ugly secret that would destroy our family. And I could not be the one to do that. I just... couldn't.

But somehow Ronnie knew. He really saw me. And for the first time, I really saw Ronnie.

THE END