The First Christmas

• Charlotte Picker, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2018

The box of decorations sat before me. An entire life pieced together in one dog-eared box. I remember I began to dismember it. Traditions that had withstood generations in one corner, warm nostalgia in another. At first, I too had wanted to skip Christmas, shove these ancient articles away and pretend that it didn’t exist. It might have been easier. Grandad’s funeral had only been a few days earlier; our hearts were still trying to mend the hole that it had torn. But that’s not what Grandad would have wished for. He’d have wanted to see us like we were on all other Christmas mornings - me and my older sister Immy, pounding out a chorus of ohhs and ahhs as we opened our presents. I can almost imagine him beckoning us to his old, dusty armchair, telling us ‘Christmas must go on’.

I remember the day we found out that Grandad had had a stroke. I remember Mum, her hand raised over her mouth, her phone pressed against her skin and the tears burning down her cheeks. I remember the family in the emergency room, the air conditioning spreading cold fear around us like a solemn ghost. But I mostly remember being hungry…. not sure whether I was starved of food or of reassurance. I think that that is where I made my mistake. Nobody had answers, so I made up my own. In an attempt for temporary comfort, I built up false hope that Grandad was going to get better. But, he didn’t.

“Come on little one”, Immy called. I looked around, the house was finally alive with Christmas spirit. Stacks of meticulously wrapped gifts had taken residence underneath our grandparents’ squat little Christmas tree. We’d turned the flowers from the funeral into a centerpiece for Christmas lunch. I could see Grandad chuckling, “well you’ve made good use of them”. My breath escaped me, and tears threatened to invade my eyes. Drawing them in, I took Immy’s hand in mine and got ready for church. The start of our year of firsts.
On returning, we sat around the table, the family waiting to begin our Christmas eve feast. Hot phlegm rose in my throat at the unease. I longed to be back in my room, to cry by myself, the same way I did when I found out that Grandad had died. That won’t help anybody though, at some point we all have to take out the stitches holding our hearts together and let time take its course.

“Remember when Grandad used to wear those crazy suspenders every Christmas” Immy croaked. A small smile fell to my lips. Before long everyone was sharing stories about Grandad, “you know that time when……”, “your grandfather was such a character……”. We all laughed, the cackles filling the crisp evening air. It was as if Grandad was right there beside me, holding my hand the way he always did. Maybe this Christmas won’t be so different after all.