The story I'm about to share with you, I wrote earlier this year for an anthology that I've been fortunate enough to get in on. I won't share all of my submissions, but this one is truly special.
A Wish Come True
I remember feeling heartbroken. I remember being told that I’d be missed, and asked if I’d like to take care of her two special teddy bears, Albuquerque, and El Paso. I remember accepting my bear-sitting mission, getting hugs, shedding tears, and saying good-bye. Good-bye to sleep-overs at my house, exploring science labs, or hiding out in fields of dandelions underneath bright blue skies with warm breezes. Next thing I knew, my favourite aunt was on a plane, flying across the mighty Atlantic, getting married, and settling into her new life in England. I was six years old.
The end of October was soon upon us, along with my seventh birthday. People sang, as candles burned bright.
“Make a wish.”
I took a deep breath and blew. All seven flames turned into wisps of smoke. The waiting had begun.
Halloween passed, along with Remembrance Day. With my advent calendar at the ready, December 1 arrived. Advent box number one was opened, and the first chocolate was consumed.
A few more boxes were opened, and then it was time. My sister was a month shy of one- year- old when our mum and mamma took us to the mall to see Santa. I knew exactly what I was going to ask for.
“Ho, ho, ho!”
Our turn had arrived. I sat on one knee while my baby sister sat on the other, sucking her fingers.
“Have you been a good girl this year?”
“Yes, Santa.”
“Have you helped your mommy with your baby sister?”
“Yes, Santa.”
“Since you’ve been a good girl, and a big help, what would you like me to bring you for Christmas?”
I knew exactly what I wanted: A movie that I had seen on the television, and watched with my mum. A movie with a scene featured in a Bugs Bunny episode, which was what made me long for it for Christmas.
“I’d like Robin Hood with Errol Flynn, please,” my eyes big, and my semi-toothless grin growing large.
Santa looked at my mother in disbelief. A seven year old not only asking for an Errol Flynn movie, but actually knowing who he was. My mum just shrugged her shoulders, while my sister continued to suck her fingers, as she stared at the bearded old man who had her on his knee.
“I shall see what my elves can do.”
With a candy cane, and a ho, ho, ho, we were off. My sister remained oblivious while my holiday excitement began to grow.
School started to get very exciting as the Christmas holidays were fast approaching. But not just that, there were Spirit Days, assemblies, and activity days to be had.
My elementary school would host a Christmas Spirit Day a week or two before the holiday break. We would have cupcakes to decorate, Santa magnets made of felt to glue together, and a big Christmas tree in the front foyer that we would adorn with paper chains, popcorn garlands, and popsicle stick ornaments that were tied together with yarn. Inside decorated cardboard boxes placed underneath the tree as presents would be canned goods collected from the food drive before donating them to the local food bank.
On the bus, we’d sing every single carol imaginable in our childlike excitement as loud as humanly possible, whilst counting down the days until Christmas vacation, as well as the big day itself. On a pre-selected evening, we’d go back to the school for the holiday talent show. I was always in the school choir, along with my best friend, which always amused my mother to no end as his family’s Pakistani.
“I don’t see the big deal, mum. We’re just singing some songs,” I would innocently say to my mother, oblivious to the little Muslim boy singing holiday songs about baby Jesus.
Finally, the last day of school before vacation would arrive, which for we students meant only one thing: Christmas party! Our classroom would be decorated with our winter and holiday art projects, we would deck the halls, and Christmas music could be heard throughout the entire school. We would eat, everything from chips to candies, play games, dance, and share with one another what we wanted from Santa while our teacher came around with holiday treats for everybody before opening any cards or little presents that we’d brought in for him.
“Mmm! I can’t wait to have breakfast, and try this on my toast,” was the reaction my mother’s homemade blackcap jam would garner, as the teacher and students alike would all smile.
The bus ride home was always filled with laughter, smiles, but most important, Christmas carols. The entire bus would erupt into a chorus of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, or Jingle Bells, eighth-graders and kindergarteners alike. We would all sing loud and off-key, without a single care in the world. Our bus driver would smile. She loved to both see and hear our joy. The driver herself would do her part by decorating the bus. Santa stickers, snowman window clings, holly magnets, maybe some lights, and perhaps a giant wreath on the front grill. She’d also give us a small treat when we’d reached our respective stops.
“Have a good Christmas. I hope Santa’s good to you,” she’d say,” and tell your mum and gramma, ‘Merry Christmas’ from me.”
With a candy cane for me, and an extra one for my sister, I’d hop off the bus. The Christmas break had officially started.
So much to do, and so little time to do it. That’s how it always felt, those final days leading up to Christmas. As a child, we always had a real tree. None of that strange fake plastic stuff. As our luck would have it, our neighbours across the road had a Christmas tree farm. So we’d grab our mitts, find our hats, slip into our boots, and trek through the snowy trees in our attempts to find the perfect one.
“If I can stick my arm straight up, and the tree looks like it’s the same height, it’s just the right size,” my mum would tell us.
Tree selected, we would get it back home, and leave it in the old kitchen to dry. In the meantime, while the tree dripped, I’d take out a piece of paper, and write my letter to Santa, complete with colourful Christmas drawings, while carols would play in the background, mainly Mel Torme, who, at my mother’s insistence, is still a holiday staple in my family’s household.
“You may ask Santa for three things, and remember they’re just ideas. He might not be able to get you everything that you ask for,” mum would remind me before adding, “but you are allowed to ask him for some surprises,” making me think that I was really asking for more than just those three desired items.
I would write down the usual childhood things on that list: This toy, that toy, and, “The Adventures of Robin Hood with Errol Flynn, please,” being the most important.
“And some surprises.”
After what seemed like an eternity, our tree, finally dry, would be brought in from the old kitchen, and be set up lovingly in the corner of the living room. Christmas specials played on the television in the background while I would decorate the tree with my parents, my baby sister watching clueless, while her gaze would pass back and forth between the three of us.
“Are you ready to put on the star?”
With an excited, “yeah,” my daddy would lift me up, and I’d top the tree. Tinsel sparkled, lights flashed, and we would all allow ourselves a satisfying smile in admiration for our job well done.
More advent boxes. The big day would be fast approaching, and there’d still be shopping left to do, snow angels to make, and cookies for Santa left to bake. My excitement would of course grow, and my sister would seem excited too, as she’d bop around in her playpen. Mel Torme could still be heard in the background while my mum and I would finish a big batch of white chocolate macadamia nut cookies.
“Santa’s going to love these,” my mother and I would both agree.
Finally, at long last, the twenty-fourth of December would arrive. Christmas Eve day. That final advent box would be opened, and the chocolate with the Santa design consumed. I’d be overwhelmed with joy. After all, Santa would be due to arrive that night. The big day would be fewer than 24 hours away.
We had a tradition in our family on Christmas Eve, and it didn’t involve midnight mass. Instead, my grandparents would come out to visit, and we’d have a cup or two of Christmas cheer... or perhaps just a fresh-baked cookie instead. But that Christmas Eve in particular, though, I shall never forget.
I still remember the movie that I was watching on the television that night. It was Candles, Snow, and Mistletoe, Sharon, Lois, and Bram’s Christmas special. I remember the tree in the corner, lights flickering, reflecting off the tinsel, and the branches covered in craft ornaments, either made by me, or crocheted by my great-grandmother, with some store-bought ones intermingled here and there. I can still hear the wood crackling inside the woodstove, smell the smoke, feel its heat, and, watching through the window in the front door, see the snowflakes falling to the ground.
Thud, thud, thud, up the front porch steps. Knock, knock, knock at the front door.
I remember seeing my gramma enter first, followed by my grampa. Then I saw her. It took a moment to register, but then I ran, and jumped as high as my little legs would allow me into the arms of my favourite aunt. I started to sob, and I couldn’t stop.
“My wish came true,” I bawled in her ear,
“What wish,” she asked me.
“On my birthday, I wished that you’d come home to see me for Christmas.”
She hugged me tighter. I cried harder, with everyone else shedding tears too, especially my aunt.
I cannot remember what else happened that Christmas Eve. I couldn’t even tell you what Santa had left for me under the tree that year, except for The Adventures of Robin Hood in all its Errol Flynn glory. But that didn’t matter. My wish had come true. My aunt had come back home from England to visit me. Ever since, I’ve believed that wishes really can come true. After all, mine did.
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