SHORT INTRODUCTION: I ran across this story on Reddit. It's a different kind of Christmas story. I hope it touches you as deeply as it touched me. Written by u/selectivelycrazy, and reprinted here with her permission.
It is 2020, unfortunately. It’s the day after my two younger sisters and I flew out to Pennsylvania to see my dad, who lives there after getting divorced by my mom for fifteen years of not being a good husband or dad. He lives with his mom, Cranky Grandma, and her devil cat, as well as my amazing aunt and her angel kitten.
Dad gets home from work. “Where’s Emi?” he asks my Cranky Grandma.
“She’s in the basement,” Cranky Grandma says, probably throwing in a snide comment or two about the newly-dyed purple hair adorning my head or the leather fingerless gloves that have joined my black wardrobe. “Lookin’ for some Christmas ornaments.”
Dad goes down the basement stairs and finds me rummaging through cardboard boxes. “What are you looking for?” he says.
“Hi, Dad,” I say. “Well, I noticed that you decorated for Christmas, but you’re missing a few things! Where are The Mooses?”
The Mooses are a pair of stuffed mooses that have been put up every Christmas since I can remember. They’re brown, about two feet tall, and soft as a marshmallow. There’s Mama Moose, who is named Merry, holding Baby Moose, who is named Christmas and is in a red velvet sack reading “Merry Christmas” on it in gold embroidery. The Mooses always go on the couch to watch over the living room and all the decorations and presents in it while we’re asleep.
The problem with The Mooses is that when my mom divorced Dad, she was so scared of him that she let him have almost everything. This included The Mooses and quite a few more of her treasured ornaments. And since I’ve always been the one to set The Mooses on the couch, that first Christmas with a divorced dad just didn’t feel right without them.
Dad helps me look for The Mooses for awhile. “Sorry, sweetie, they must have gotten lost in the move,” he says.
I smile and don’t tell him that I hate being called sweetie. “It’s okay,” I say, and pull out a cardboard box. “Hey, look! It’s your What God Wants For Christmas box! I love that tradition!”
We go set up What God Wants For Christmas in the living room. I say, “I think I’m going to go take a nap.”
Dad says, “Okay.”
I go upstairs and into my room and shut the door. I walk over to the window seat/storage chest under the window. I open it.
“Hello, Mooses,” I say.
The Mooses lay on top of my stuffed animal collection, looking dusty. Several other ornaments I recognize as Mom’s are keeping them company. I grin and shut the chest.
It is the day we fly back to my home state. I have The Mooses packed away in my suitcase, and the other ornaments tucked beside them, wrapped in my fluffiest (but still black) hoodie to protect them.
I roll my suitcase out to the hallway. Dad is weighing Youngest Sister’s bag to make sure it’s under fifty pounds. “Okay, now I need to check it to make sure you’re not stealing any of my stuff!” he tells her.
My mind says, Oh no.
My brain gives me uncomfortable memories of how Dad raged when he thought one of us had stolen his coffee mug.
My voice says, “Privacy invaded in three...two…” in a joking tone. Dad and Youngest Sister laugh. Dad does not check anyone’s suitcase.
We are at the airport. Younger Sister’s suitcase is somehow three pounds over the weight limit.
Dad says, “Emi, grab one of the suitcases that already went through and open it up. We’ll put some of Younger Sister’s stuff in there.” He gestures to my suitcase.
My mind makes an earsplitting screeching noise that sounds like someone slammed their brakes to avoid hitting a pterodactyl and hit the pterodactyl anyway.
My brain imagines Dad opening the suitcase and going into a rage at the sight of The Mooses.
My voice says, “Sure, Dad.” My hands grab Youngest Sister’s suitcase instead of mine and pass it over. Dad opens it. Her suitcase contains no smuggled goods. We transfer the stuff and the very nice airport lady sends all the bags down the conveyor belt. Dad asks me why I wave to mine. I shrug. “Just being weird,” I say. Good luck, Mooses, my mind says.
We are back home. My family- my Older Sister, who didn’t go with us, Mom, my other grandma, who we call Maga, and my Boppa, or grandpa, are all sitting in the living room catching up.
I say, “I’m disappointed you took the tree down already.”
Older Sister laughs. “It’s past New Year’s!”
“I know,” I say, “but I brought some stuff to put on it.”
I open my suitcase. I show around the ornaments I smuggled back- three tiny stuffed snowmen, our cat’s catnip-stuffed cat ornament, a white clay angel, a wooden rocking horse, a wooden mouse king, a clay snowman, my older sister’s stuffed dog. When I unveil the rocking horse, Maga gasps. “I bought that for your mother when she was little!” she exclaims. “How did your dad get it?”
“That’s not everything,” I say. I unzip the flap hiding The Mooses from view.
I pull out The Mooses.
Older Sister and Boppa clap. “How did you get those back here right under Dad’s nose?” Older Sister asks. Maga laughs so hard she has tears in her eyes.
The tears in Mom’s eyes are not from laughter.
Slowly, she reaches out and takes The Mooses, hugging them to her chest. Over their antlers, she mouths “Thank you.”
And then, she gets up, and she sets The Mooses down. On the couch.
Right where they belong.
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| A gratuitous picture of a Christmas moose, from an online store |
