The Christmas Stocking

The night was dark and stormy, matching storms that raged inside of me. Sleet pellets rattled at the windows like the tapping of boney fingers. I was facing my first Christmas alone.

I’d given birth to a beautiful little girl who passed away at the age of five. Her rosy cheeks and coppery hued hair were forever etched on my heart. Memories of her patting my face with small, chubby hands lingered, even though her death happened nearly forty-five years ago, a wound that had never fully healed. Scars from Leah’s demise had again burst open with Wade’s death earlier in the year. His death added many more.

Wade and I bought a small farmhouse. It was to be our retirement home. We remodeled and updated the kitchen and bathrooms allowing the rest of the house to retain its unique and quirky charm. Its highly polished wooden floors were original. Their beauty reflected the warmth of the blaze in the stone fireplace. Once it felt warm and cozy, but no longer. It would be an especially cold and lonely holiday for me. I was thoroughly chilled and I sat staring into the fire. I was wrapped in a thickly crocheted throw. The somber hues of gray and brown yarn matched my mood.

My thoughts strayed. They flickered like the flames in the fire. Somewhere in the recess of my mind I recalled seeing a wooden box in the attic when we bought the house. We’d been much too busy to deal with it when we moved in. A voice seemed to speak to me now. “Fetch me down. You need to see what’s inside.” The voice seemed real. I actually looked around.

I was alone. Although I felt oddly foolish, I was curious and did what the voice suggested. After a lot of bumping and banging I managed to drag the box into the living room near the warmth of the fireplace. A frayed, much-used quilt covered the contents. The quilt’s once bright fabric had faded and was torn. I ran my hand over it feeling each small hand stitch. Pulling it aside, I found the box was filled with old Christmas decorations; blown glass, beaded ones, folded foil, and handmade ornaments.

I retrieved a large cut glass bowl from the kitchen and began to fill it with the antique ornaments. I placed the bowl in the middle of the dining room table. It seemed as if unseen hands were guiding me. The storm outside and the one inside me seemed to have quieted and be less dark and severe.

I folded the quilt, intending to return it to the box. As I placed it inside, an old newspaper on the bottom slid to the side. I saw a scrap of red material. Under the paper, I found a small Christmas stocking. The small voice called again, “Hang it up on the mantle. That’s where it belongs.”

With trembling fingers, I picked it up and began to hang it up; I heard something crackle down near the toe. Reaching inside, I found a folded piece of paper. It was a note written in green crayon. “MERRY CHRISTMAS MOMMY I  LOVE YOU…LEE.”