Glass Green
Silver threads tickled the small child's palm as she reached
over her head.
The taller one was there - the girl, her sister. "No, Maggie," she warns, her voice
a tall drink of discipline. "Don't
touch."
The smaller child frowns, reaches, makes a sound of
protest. Her sister picks her up and
carries her away.
The glowing balls taunt her with their sparkly existance.
***
She's taller now, yet still shorter than the older one.
"Maggie, where did mom put the little porcelain
angels?"
"Mom has porcelain angels?" in a stroke of equality, now she can talk.
The older one sighs - pragmatic, nearly sixteen, ever
officious. "Those belong to
Grandma."
"Oh." She
strains to hang something high over her head - six now, still only half as tall
as the tree.
A soft hand surrounds her wrist and guides it to the right
limb.
"Careful," Lisa says when her sister releases the
small green ball to fate. "That
one's my favorite."
***
It's four in the morning and they're under the tree,
wrapping presents for their children.
Her sisters' are teenagers, nearly grown, and hers are adopted and
newborn. The hodgepodge of wrappings
made the proceedings a blur, and soon they were alone, without menfolk to
handicap their progress.
She never saw the problem until her forearm had already
jerked backward to retrieve a ribbon.
And a crashing noise filled the air.
The stand around the shattered green bulb as if eyeing the
tragic ashes of Pompeii.
"I didn't mean to do it, Lis," she swears.
"I know," Lisa says, stooping to sweep up the
broken fragments of glass.
***
They have grandchildren now.
Her ears are failing, and her sister's eyesight is gone. They sit, gray and lumpy, in housedresses on
the couch of her son.
It isn't the last time they'll be together - not the first -
a middle-of-the-road day on a rainy Christmas.
Her sister hands over a small box. "Merry Christmas."
Inside is a small green ball, glowing between her hands.
A smile brightens Lisa's face. "I knew it was your favorite, so I had
Thel glue it back together."
"It's still beautiful.
I don't see any cracks."
"He's still very handy." She sipped her mulled cider.
"Are you sure you don't want to keep it? Mom gave it to you when she..."
"...you like it more, I think," Lisa smiles,
squeezes her sister's hand. "How
does it look in the light?"
She pulled the ornament up by its string and saw it dance,
sparkling in a way that was magical. And
in the reflection is her sister, her evergreen sister and the Christmases
they've shared.
Maggie's smile is wide when she lowers it back to her
lap. "Incredible," she
smiles.