By Susan Reichart-Wanko
A small boy with blond hair and blue eyes comes home from school with unusual enthusiasm. The cause, no doubt, is the nearing of Christmas and the anticipated arrival of Santa. Not always anxious to show me what’s in his bookbag, the remains of a peanut butter sandwich or a test paper usually being hidden, I was surprised to see him proudly open the bag and pull out a beautiful pair of love-birds, made out of paper, with lovely touches of feathers, realistically drawn, each love-bird exquisitely intertwining. He had made these lovely birds as a decoration for my Christmas tree. In my usual haste, I told him how pretty they were and put them away to place on the tree later. The tree went up and so did the love-birds, placed there every year during my son’s childhood. Other decorations made by him were also hung with care.
My little boy grew up and the thrill of Christmas was lost. The tree didn’t have that sparkle and Santa would no longer visit. He wasn’t always home to help decorate and to see that I dutifully placed the love birds on the tree. I continued to do so, despite the years and the tendency to want to pack them away for safe-keeping.
When he was older, he finally told me the story of why he chose the love-birds. They signified to him the love between his father and me. When he expressed that significance, I could barely control my emotions, for his father and I had divorced two years after the Christmas he made them.
Last year, we bought the most beautiful tree we ever had, and new twinkling white lights and the most sparkling decorations. We added the toy soldier, small angel, boy on a sled, and other decorations bought when he was a baby. Now twenty two years old, tall and handsome, with those beautiful blue eyes, he sat and watched me put up the tree. We tried to make a festive day of the tree trimming, but he didn’t feel well enough to help, to sing a Christmas carol, or to place the love-birds on the tree. Several months before Christmas, we found out that he was sick, that he had tested positive for HIV.
Suddenly every Christmas of the past is a sacred memory, and not knowing from one year to the next if he will be here for the next holiday makes every Christmas left precious. Each Christmas tree, we pick now will be more spectacular than the year before, and the love-birds I thought of packing away will always be on my tree.
The beauty of the Christmas when he brought home the love-birds and the joy on a young boy’s face can never be forgotten. There is an overwhelming sadness at the thought of any Christmas in the years ahead without him, and the thought of a tree after he is gone is something incomprehensible. Despite that, there will always be one, perhaps a tree with no lights or decorations, but a pair of love-birds will adorn it.
Susan Reichart-Wanko is the winner of the 1995 Hudson County, New Jersey Writers’ Contest