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Story Notes:
Third in the Wisdom's Looking Glass series.

 

Midnight. On Halloween, midnight marked the witching hour. On New Year's Eve, midnight marked the end of one year and beginning of another. Tonight ... tonight midnight marked what he'd once known as the most joyous time of year.

He drew in a lungful of frosty air, savoring its clean bite. The snow had stopped an hour earlier, and the blustery winds had faded away shortly thereafter. In their wake lay a clear night, more than comfortable enough for winter. He halted to take in his surroundings, allowing the gifts he carried to slide to the ground.

A blanket of white stretched out before him as far as the eye could see, pristine except for his own footprints. Tree branches sparkled like diamonds, their beauty belying the peril posed by the thick layer of ice which encased them. A single twinkle of light pierced the black velvet sky, its glow unearthly.

A star? For a moment, he entertained the idea what he saw might be not merely a star, but the star reputed to have proclaimed Jesus' birth two millennia earlier. What a sign to confirm he was doing the right thing if it was! Nah, more likely an ornament made of rope lights atop someone's roof, a reflection of light off a cross atop a church steeple, or a beacon atop a radio tower.

He shook his head at his unaccustomed whimsy, shouldered his pack again, and continued on his way. Tonight two men – himself and a mythical figure known as Santa Claus, Kris Kringle, or some variation thereon – had their own missions to fulfill. Santa Claus had a red suit, a sleigh pulled by reindeer, a mysterious talent for entering homes through their chimneys, and a sack full of toys. He had a heavy overcoat, a nondescript sedan, a lock pick set which could get him past any lock in the universe, and a black duffel bag full of tricks. Both would accomplish their missions.

He chuckled at his flight of fancy. People had always told him his sense of humor ranged from odd to dark. If anyone ever heard the parallel he'd drawn, they'd have proof they were right.

Church bells resounded in the distance, their rich peal at once triumphant and reassuring. Warmth flooded his heart, and he blinked hard against the tears which suddenly obscured his vision. This was the right thing to do. The intrusion of the aural reminder of this night's meaning confirmed the wisdom of his decision to come here tonight – and the appropriateness of his being here while others attended midnight services.

His destination seemed to loom before him, its size magnified by the deserted nature of its environs. A thin layer of crystallization atop the new-fallen snow crunched beneath his feet as he forced himself to cover the remaining distance.

All too soon, he found himself there. His stomach growled, less from hunger than from nerves. He ignored the annoyance, instead dropping his bag on the ground and rifling through its contents.

A few items were out of place. Panic coursed through his veins and his heart raced as he crouched and burrowed deeper into the bag. A sigh of relief escaped him as he discovered they'd wedged themselves into the space between the cardboard lining the bag's bottom and its canvas exterior. He rocked back on his haunches while he rearranged the bag's contents, then stood, lifting the largest gift he'd brought out of the bag.

Absently, he freed a hand to shove his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. One assessing gaze told him the ideal spot for the tiny pine he held in his other hand. Too many of its needles already littered the inside of his bag and the snow at his feet, but it'd do. Especially once it was trimmed.

He thrust the trunk into the ground and reached for the small shovel which usually resided in his trunk. With a few carefully placed movements, he packed enough snow around the tree's base to ensure it would stay upright. Once that was done, he returned the shovel to its place and delved further into the bag to unearth what came next.

A soft voice in his memory reminded him of how important the right order was to the task of Christmas tree decorating. He followed the instructions last issued long ago, first draping the tree with two strings of lights. The bulbs were larger than those customarily used nowadays, closer to the size they'd used the last time he put up a tree. Nostalgia wasn't the reason he'd used these bulbs, though. He'd found it easier to rewire the old-fashioned strings so they would operate off the battery pack (replete with light sensor) he now secreted on the stripped-of-needles crook where one of the tree's branches met its trunk.

Ornaments followed, those he'd brought carefully chosen for both luster and durability. Then came a few strands of plastic beads, identical to the jeweled glass garlands which had always made their tree shine with an uncommon beauty, no matter how misshapen the evergreen might have been when he brought it home from the lot. Finally, he lifted the tree topper from the bag.

An angel whose face wore a beatific smile, surrounded by a glittery star which shone as brightly as the Star of Bethlehem must have that night two thousand years ago. It was a replica of the original, one he'd commissioned because he couldn't bring himself to part with the much loved ornament, but he handled it as gingerly as though it were the same fragile piece handed down through the generations. Memories of every Christmas they'd shared strobed through his mind, leaving him with one phrase reverberating in his skull: too few.

"Far too few," he whispered hoarsely, caressing the ornament. Without the angel, the tree might as well be bare. He squared his shoulders, took a step forward, and settled the angel/star atop the tree.

Here went nothing. He plugged the first light string into the second, then the second into the battery pack. Obediently, the tree blazed into light.

Some other night, he might have worried the watchman would spot the light and be drawn to investigate. Tonight he had no need for concern, for even the cemetery watchman had Christmas off.

He shook his head free of thoughts of the watchman and stepped back to admire his handiwork. Pretty damn good after all this time, if he did say so himself. He could almost hear her yearly gush that this year's was the most beautiful tree yet.

Hear. Uh-oh. He'd known he'd forgotten something. He just hadn't been able to put his finger on what it was.

Music. Couldn't very well have Christmas without Christmas music, now could they?

He lunged for the duffel bag, removed the CD player he'd brought, slipped in the re-issue of her favorite Christmas record, and set it back atop the bag to play. The strains of "It Came Upon a Midnight Clear" broke the nocturnal stillness. Once upon a time, he would hum when she played this song. Tonight he let the music wash over him while he bustled over to her grave and dropped awkwardly to his knees. Fingers which now occupied themselves day and night tinkering with gadgets, fingers which still remembered the sensation of her skin beneath them, gently brushed snow off the red-ribboned blanket of evergreens atop her grave.

When he finished, his gloves were soaked through. It didn't matter. He needed to feel the roughness of her headstone beneath his fingertips, unfiltered by the leather. Peeling off the gloves, he shoved them into his pockets. A shuddering breath steeled him to reach forward and trace the lettering of Mary's name with tender reverence.

Blake wasn't sure how long he knelt there, tracing and retracing his wife's name and dates with a shaking forefinger. All he knew was about half the CD had played while he completed his ritual. "Merry Christmas, Mary," he whispered, and pressed his finger first to his lips, then to the gravestone. God, what he wouldn't give to be able to kiss her again!

His knees cracked as he rose, the ache an unpleasant reminder of his advancing age – and of the reality Mary's age would remain frozen in time, his angel who'd died far too young. If she'd been alive, she'd have chided him for harboring such maudlin thoughts on Christmas. Of course, if she were still alive, he wouldn't be here. And even though she was dead, he suspected – or perhaps he only hoped – she wanted to hear he'd done the impossible and found joy in Christmas once again.

There was nothing he could do about the fact he was spending part of Christmas at the cemetery, for he refused to go through an entire Christmas without being with Mary. But he could grant her wish for him.

Withdrawing a folded sheet of paper from his overcoat's breast pocket, he informed her, "This is your real gift, Mary. It's the one you've wanted for so many years." Hands steadier than he'd imagined possible, he unfolded the paper and stared down at his own handwriting, unseeing. If he'd been able to focus, he still couldn't have read the letter by the light of the Christmas tree. He didn't need to. The words he'd painstakingly crafted were imprinted on his soul.


~ My dearest Mary,

Well, as you can see, I'm writing to you again. I know you're used to my ramblings by now, but I suppose you're a bit shocked by a Christmas letter. I guess – God, I can't believe I'm saying this – I guess it was finally time to get off my duff and celebrate Christmas again. So that's why this letter and why now, and I'll tell you more about why later.

I can hardly believe it's been twenty years since you died. Twenty years I've survived without you, though often I'm not sure how I've managed to do it. Sometimes it seems you've been gone so long I've always been alone. Other times ... other times I'd swear you were just in the next room because your presence is so strong. I can still hear your voice, smell your scent, remember how you felt spooned against me under the covers. And I wish all that was real, that you'd never left home that horrible day. I miss you so much my heart aches. Don't laugh, but I even miss the block of ice your feet turned into on cold winter nights – and the way you'd rest them against the soles of mine in a stealth attack designed to make me jump.

God, twenty years. I can't get that number out of my head, maybe because it's incomprehensible. I know, I know, it's not as though we can turn back the clock, as much as I might wish it so. And it's not as though I've ever missed you any less or felt your absence any less keenly, especially at Christmas.

But still ... twenty years!

It's a long time to avoid the holiday we both always loved most. All right, I admit I haven't exactly avoided it entirely over the years, hard as I tried. You're pleased with yourself about that, I can see your lips widen into that sly grin you always wore right after you'd hidden the presents somewhere you mistakenly thought I wouldn't look. So many years Paul insisted his and Annie's holiday party was a command performance – and you know I'd never cross either of them. A lot of those times I hated them for forcing me to stop hiding and be around happy people for an entire evening. Now I'm wondering whether you orchestrated the whole thing because you didn't want me to be alone.

But the strangest Christmas you missed was that one a few years ago when the precinct was taken hostage. I still can't figure out how I went from successful avoidance of the invitation to Peter's Christmas party to stumbling through his front door half-drunk and lugging a bowl of eggnog while Skalany trailed along with a bag full of mistletoe. I just know you were looking down on me that night laughing hysterically. Funny how easy it is to forget how many of these people I regale you with stories about you never met.

This year ... this year celebrating Christmas became an imperative. I wish to God I could tell you I'd finally managed to put the pain of spending the season without you in the past, to enjoy it for what it is, as you would want me to. But the truth is neither so sensible nor so encouraging. The truth has to do with being shaken to the core in a way nothing except your death ever did before.

Three months ago, Mary ... For one horrible, shameful second three months ago, I found myself glad you weren't here, glad you didn't have to witness what the rest of us did. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me for that, because I can't forgive myself. You must know I didn't truly wish you dead, only protected as no one alive and within reach of a television or a newspaper could possibly be from the horror of that day.

Three months ago everything changed.

September 11th. If anyone should have been prepared for a day like that, I should have been one of those who were. But I wasn't – no matter how many war zones I've seen, I never thought it would happen here. Never thought lower Manhattan could look like some bombed-out, war-torn city.

Al Qaeda – a terrorist group that didn't even exist in your lifetime – attacked us. I could go through lengthy explanations of what happened, but it wouldn't solve anything. It wouldn't change anything.

They hijacked four planes that morning, and when they were done, the Pentagon was smoldering, both towers of the World Trade Center (yes, I remember how awed you were the first time we saw them, how sure you were they were there for the ages) had collapsed, and there was a crater in the ground in rural Pennsylvania. No one really knows where that last plane was headed, but I think it's pretty clear it was either the White House or the Capitol.

By the grace of God, we were spared worse that day, Mary -- and I am aware what I've just described sounds like the kind of apocalypse you never thought could happen and I always knew any truly free nation risked. So how could it have been worse?

We only lost – God help me, I never imagined I could write these words and mean them – about three thousand people, including a good third of the New York Fire Department. I don't mean to sound cold or unfeeling by suggesting three thousand dead is an acceptable number. It's just – There are so many thoughts in my mind, so many ways this could have been worse. But Christmas isn't a time for so much pessimism, even though what I'm about to say will sound pretty ... well, pessimistic. Just remember it isn't, it's only a way to put things in perspective.

Three months ago, the unthinkable happened. If it had been later in the day or if so many people hadn't escaped with their lives ... In a quiet moment later that day, as we watched hell on earth unfold, I did the calculations. Do you realize more people could have died in that one morning than our country lost in all the years of the Vietnam War? But they didn't, and that small gift provided hope even as the nation reeled.

They wanted to destroy our spirit, Mary. They failed. I never saw as many American flags as I saw in the weeks that followed – no matter what quarrels people had with their government, they were proud of their country and their countrymen. Pride and patriotism and defiance held sway where the terrorists expected fear and cowering, even in New York. Maybe especially in New York.

And I finally realized what you would have tried to tell me all along if you'd been able. Those gang members who murdered you were just as much terrorists as the men who hijacked those planes. Terrorists feed on the fear they can instill. They're happiest when they make us change our ways, when they make us alter our lives to suit them. For so many years, I gave those little bastards (I'm sorry, Mary, I can't call your killers boys) the satisfaction of being just one more person they'd terrorized into submission. They may have taken you from me, but they couldn't have taken Christmas without my complicity.

I'm sorry it took me so long to figure out the best tribute to you and to all we shared is to carry on with the things we loved. I guess I'm one of your slow learners, but I promise I've finally learned my lesson.

This year, I did an about-face and got into the Christmas spirit the way we used to. The only thing I didn't do was bake your famous cookies – I figured it was better to entrust your recipe to the best baker we know than to risk giving everyone ptomaine from my efforts. We have a tree again, in the same corner of the living room as always, with all our favorite ornaments. I went up in the attic and dragged out the Nativity figures and the stockings you used to hang on the fireplace and all the little Christmassy things you used to pick up every time you were in the store. Everything's in pretty good shape for having been up there since I packed it away after the Christmas you died, actually. And I made myself set up the light displays that used to be my trademark.

So many new families have moved into our neighborhood. I think they were in shock when the ol' Scrooge down the block, otherwise known as Mr. Blake, threw the switch. But it didn't last long, and now there's a whole new generation of children gaping with awe at the "Christmas house". And I'm like a little kid at Christmas again myself.

Oh, Mary, how I wish I'd learned my lesson sooner. The true spirit of Christmas is in the loving and the giving. You always knew that. You told me once you needed nothing but the joy in a child's eyes to have a merry Christmas. I wasted so much time thinking of what I'd lost and of the Christmases you'd never have, but this year I've looked into so many children's eyes and seen their joy. And I know that the moment I stopped just going through the motions of carrying on with Christmas again and began to celebrate was the moment that first little boy from down the block rode his bike down to watch me finish putting up the lights and begged me for a preview. Turns out young Evan Harris is a second-generation native of our block. Do you remember little Tommy Harris, who used to "help" me put up the lights and invariably got so tangled in the strings it took both of us to extricate him? Well, he's all grown up now with three children of his own, of whom Evan's the youngest, and our Christmases are family legend for them, from what I hear. And he's bound and determined to ensure that particular family legend continues.

Christmas lives on. Your spirit lives on. And for the rest of my years, I swear I will enjoy Christmas as much as we ever did.

This is my gift to you.

I will always love you.

Merry Christmas. ~


Relinquishing the letter was harder than he'd thought it would be. But he needed to take this one last step to show Mary he'd finally found Christmas again.

Blake sank to his knees once more and placed the letter against Mary's tombstone. The next time the wind kicked up, his words would be borne to the heavens – and to her.

The last notes of the final song on the CD faded, and he rose. Blake whispered a brief prayer for his wife's soul, then the last two lines of his letter before turning and gathering up his bag.

His steps were brisk as he headed for the cemetery gate, brisker than had ever been the case when he'd left her here. After all, he still had one part of his mission to complete.

He had a lighted Nativity scene to complete and a neighborhood full of children to introduce to Mary's Christmas cookies.

 
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