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“Yes.” He sighed again. “But I have a box of ornaments somewhere. In the garage, I think. If I can find them, can we use them instead of the tinsel?”
“Okay. You look for the ornaments, and I’ll put up the wreath.”
Paul went into the garage and dug through boxes of storage. He had essentially stopped celebrating Christmas when Sara died. They had never made that big a deal of the holidays at his house as a kid, and the marital merry-making had been all Sara’s. She couldn’t get enough of Christmas and started decorating around Halloween. While they were together, he had found her enthusiasm for the holiday infectious, but when he was on his own, the season became lonesome and melancholy.
Christmas was a work day for him, a busy time, and that made it bearable. He gave the services so other families could celebrate. He took what pleasure he could from their faces. Then he went home and watched TV. It seemed foolish to put up decorations for himself. He opened the presents that came in the mail when they arrived, and there was no need for holiday music for that.
Now that he would have someone to celebrate with again, Christmas suddenly did seem fun. Paul found the box of ornaments buried under some old tax receipts. He went back into the house humming “White Christmas.” Paul pushed the pile of plastic bags aside and set the ornament box on the coffee table. When he opened it, he was surprised at the strong emotion the contents gave him. He had not seen the ornaments since he and Sara had packed them up their last Christmas together. The box had become a time capsule.
Each ornament in the box represented some part of their lives together. Paul could see Sara, her thin hair covered by a head scarf, taking the fragile ornaments down from the tree and wrapping them in paper towels. Right on top was an ornament Paul had forgotten entirely because it had hung on the tree only once. It was a crystal angel blowing a golden horn.
“She’ll watch over you,” Sara said when he opened it. They both understood the unspoken second half of the sentence: “After I’m gone.”
She put it on the tree that day, up at the top near the star. A few days later, Paul packed the decorations away, along with the angel ornament, and purposely put it out of his mind. It had remained in the box unseen and unremembered until now. Paul brushed a tear away from the corner of his eye.
“What is it?” Ian asked.
“I’m sorry,” Paul said. “I didn’t expect…. Sara gave this to me our last Christmas together. I forgot about it.”
“I’m sorry,” Ian said. He put his arms around Paul and let him sink into his shoulder. They held onto each other silently for a full minute. Paul finally let go.
Ian took the angel from Paul’s hand and held it up to the light. “It’s really beautiful.”
“It’s supposed to be Sara’s angel watching over me. We knew that Christmas that….” He brushed away another tear. “I didn’t mean to spoil the mood.”
“It’s okay,” Ian said. He handed the ornament back to Paul. “You should put it on the tree.”
“I don’t know,” Paul said. He wrapped the angel back up in her paper towel. “Why don’t we put up the other ones, and I’ll think about this one.”
Ian picked up an ornament shaped like a country church with a steeple. “Is this the church?” he asked.
“It’s supposed to be.” Sara had given that one to Paul their first Christmas together, when they were still dating.
Paul unwrapped an ornament in the shape of a house. He had gotten that one for Sara to commemorate buying their home. His first mortgage. Now that was a commitment!
Ian was hanging a God’s eye made of sticks and yarn. Sara had made that with the kids in her Sunday-school class. He placed it next to a glass hummingbird, a gift for Sara, who took childlike delight in the birds in their new yard. Every ornament in the box was constructed around a memory of Sara. Ian, unaware of their meanings, happily arranged and rearranged them on the tree until he was satisfied with the color and symmetry. He backed up and stood beside Paul gazing at his work.
“It looks good, doesn’t it?” he said. “You know what would make it better, though?”
“Tinsel?”
“Tinsel!”
“No.”
When all of the decorating was done, Paul, of course, scooped up all the packaging and deposited it in the kitchen trash. He made some hot chocolate, and he and Ian sat on the futon admiring the festiveness of the room. This entertained them for a good six minutes. So they unfolded the futon, pulled out the afghan, and curled up to watch whatever was on TV. Ian rested his head on Paul’s right shoulder with his arm draped across Paul’s chest. Paul lazily ran the fingers of his right hand through Ian’s hair. A commercial for engagement rings came on: “A diamond is forever.”
“Did you buy Sara a ring like that?” Ian asked.
“Yeah. Not quite that big, but… I have it. Do you want to see it?” Before Ian could answer, Paul rolled off the futon and headed into the bedroom. When he returned he was holding a small box, shiny cardboard. He sat back down beside Ian, removed the lid, and handed the box to him. The gesture called to mind a marriage proposal. Realizing this, Paul spoke quickly to break the spell. “That’s her ring.”
It was silver with a modest stone in a square setting. Sara’s fingers had been small—the ring looked as though it might fit on Ian’s pinky—but he didn’t try it on. He ran his finger slowly over it and then handed it back to Paul.
“They gave it back to me when she died,” he said. “I wanted to be there with her, holding her hand. That’s how I pictured it. But it took a long time. She really held on. There was a week where we were just waiting, thinking she would go at any time. So I went home to sleep one night, and almost as soon as I got home, they called and said I should come back. By the time I got there, she was gone. The nurse said ‘I’m sorry’ and gave me this.”
“That’s rough,” Ian said. Paul closed the box and set it on the end table under the Christmas tree.
“How did you know you wanted to marry her?” Ian asked.
