I remember that night as clearly as ever. In that dark, dreary room I held his hands as hard as I could, hoping that if I held tight enough he wouldn't leave me. I knelt on the ground beside his bed. I didn't even mind the hard, cold concrete floor or the darkness.
I looked at his face. His brown, wrinkly skin looked like a discarded, wrinkled paper bag left to itself. His eyes had grown dull and cloudy from the suffering, and his back was stooped over as if he carried invisible weights upon them. His silver hair was thinning and his smile showed that his teeth were rather yellow. Along with this, his lips, once beautiful, were dry and cracked.
I couldn't get used to seeing him like this. It was frightening. I couldn't even bear to look at his face, for his emerald green eyes still showed too much pain. I looked down at his wrinkled hands that were merely skin and bones. A tear slid down my cheek and landed on the sheets.
"Grandpa, when are you going to get better?" I asked through my tears.
He patted me gently with his palm and said, "Don't worry, Beth. It's Christmas tomorrow. I'm sure I will feel a lot better in the morning."
I lifted my head to look at him. "You promise?" I asked, unsure.
"I promise." He smiled. That smile. it made me believe him when he said those two words.
He promised, but his promise was a lie. He broke that promise. He said he would get better soon, but he didn't. The next day, I walked into the room to see not my grandpa smiling at me, but a soulless, stiff body. I held my breath and my heart beat rapidly. He said that he would get better soon, but he didn't. I stared at him through my tear-stained eyes. He looked peaceful, emotionless, grey, and empty, as if his soul had already made its way to Heaven. Hundreds of emotions ran through me. How could he? How could he die on Christmas Day?
Four Years Later
"Elisabeth," a voice yelled. "It's time to go!"I rushed down the stairs. My father waited for me while putting on his tan jacket. We walked out the door and a wisp of cold air blew across my face. We entered the car. I looked back. The house was getting smaller and smaller until it was just a dot.
"I still don't get why we do this every year," I said. "Why can't we just spend Christmas like a normal family?"
"Because it's Christmas, and we spend Christmas our way."
"What? 'Because it's Christmas?' That's the best answer you can come up with?" I replied, angry. A heavy silence hung over us. Silence can kill. I urged myself to speak. "Grandpa died on Christmas! Why are we even celebrating it?"
We came to a stop. I quickly jumped out of the car and started to run. I heard steps behind me and ran faster.
His hand grabbed me by the shoulder, forcing me to face him. "Your grandfather would have wanted to keep Christmas alive. He loved Christmas," he cried fiercely. "Every year he would drive me-he would drive us here to help the poor. That is why we are doing this!"
"But -"
He cut me off. "No buts! You will do as you're told. Now come!"
"Fine!" I said unwillingly as I walked away.
Behind me I heard him whisper. "Oh, Father. You always knew how to bring out the best in Elisabeth. With you gone, we are all so lost."
I wandered off in my own misery. As I walked across the streets, I passed countless people with dirty and ripped clothing, but with a smile hanging on their face. They waved as they wished each other Merry Christmas. I couldn't bring myself to do the same. There was nothing merry about Christmas.
I watched the people exchange loaves of bread and oranges, crying with joy and gratitude. Their tears of joy only made me walk faster, trying to escape the unhappiness. I knew it wasn't their fault that someone dear to me had died on this day, but a part of me did blame it on them. I was angry, full of rage and sadness while people all around me smiled and cheered. I could only mourn.
I finally found place that was isolated from everyone. I sat down on the bench. Across from me there was a present wrapped in colored paper and sparkling bows. I kicked it aside. The cold was starting to get to me. A strike of cold wind whooshed by, and I shivered. Curse the cold. Curse the snow. Curse the joy that couldn't feel. Curse Christmas!
"Miss, are you okay?" said an unfamiliar voice. I stared at a little boy who came out of nowhere.
"I'm fine," I replied.
"Are you sure? You're shivering. Here," he started to unzip his coat. "Take my coat." He pulled off his coat and handed it to me with an uneven smile. "Here you go! Don't freeze yourself to death, ma'am."
"No!" I blurted. "It's okay, I'm fine."
"Really, take it."
I reached out, but hesitated. I stared at him again. He looked like an angel with the snow on his straw-blonde hair, and his bright blue eyes caught the light and glowed like a candle's flame. And his smile, it reminded me of the days before Grandpa died. I smiled.
"Well, alright. If you insist." I took the coat and pulled my arms through the sleeves. It was a little bit small, but better than nothing. I zipped it up. Suddenly I felt a flow of warmth tingle through my body. His face almost immediately turned red from the cold. I couldn't help wonder why he would give me his coat when he needed it just as badly.
"Aren't you cold now?" I asked.
He kept grinning. "I can manage. My mother used to say that there would always be people less fortunate than me and that I should give back. She used to tell me about people who didn't even own a penny and." he shivered. "It's the least I can do." I looked at him with curiosity. "You need that coat more than I do, so I'm giving it to you," he finished.
"Your mother's wise," I breathed.
His smile drooped. "She was," he said. Terror swiped across my face.
"Was? What happened to her?" I asked.
"She died. a year ago. On Christmas."
I suddenly realized something. I was not alone. This boy, the one who was so happy, had experienced the same.
"On Christmas?" I repeated.
He tightened his scarf. "Yes," he confirmed.
"But aren't you. sad, though? That this very day reminds you of her death?"
"Yes, of course! But my mother's last words to me were, 'don't be sad, child. Remember me. Remember the spirit of Christmas. Be happy on Christmas. Be happy for me.' So I will."
I stared at him again. The words ran through my head, 'be happy, be happy on Christmas.'
"My mother's favorite holiday was Christmas. She said that it was a special time of year that brings out the best in us. When even the worst feelings get tucked away, and everybody is kind to each other. It's the magic of Christmas," he smiled.
"How old are you?" I asked.
"I'm eight!" he said, smiling again.
He was the same age I was when Grandpa died, yet he was so much more mature-compassionate. And his joyful smile was so contagious it made me want to smile with him.
We talked and talked. He shared his past and his stories with me, a stranger.
"Miss, I have to now," he said at long last. "My uncle will be looking for me."
As he walked away, it hit me. His name.
I ran after him. When I finally caught up, I asked, "What's your name?"
He said nothing, just pulled a piece of notebook paper from his pocket and handed it to me. With that, he walked away.
I unfolded the piece of paper. On it, written in beautiful handwriting, it said:
My name is Edmund. It sounds like you need a bit of Christmas magic. Your grandfather would have wanted you to be happy. Keep believing in the magic of Christmas-it might just surprise you.I stood there amidst all the falling snow staring at the words on the page. I fingered the weathered paper. It was crumpled and dirty, but the ink was new. I thanked Edmund silently for helping me realize and to move on
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