It was a ritual--a private ritual--held on November 18 each year, the anniversary of the date that she had lost James and Gabrielle. Well, there had only been two so far--this would be the third--but a ritual nonetheless.

It was midnight. Sarah had come home from work, taken a long hot bath, then put on her favorite flannel pajamas. She'd eaten a spare meal of tea and a bowl of soup, then brought every candle in the house--which was a considerable number--into the bedroom. Every flat surface--the dresser, the two nightstands, and an occasional table in the corner--was covered with various kinds of candles. There were tiny tealights in glass cups, a few pillars on plates, a couple of large hurricane lamps with candles inside (and one true oil lamp, another vintage item that had originally belonged to her grandmother), and votive candles of every type.

She had lit them all with matches--a part of the ritual that she did not question. Lighting them with the butane lighter seemed sacrilegious somehow, although it would certainly have been quicker. But speed didn't enter into it, not tonight.

The whole room glowed with the flickering candle flames. It was almost like being underwater, or inside some sort of fancy Christmas ornament. She went to her closet and brought out the wicker box. It had originally been a picnic basket that had been given to her and James as a wedding gift. It had held the traditional red and white checked tablecloth and a complete table setting for four including wine glasses, three of which had long since been broken.

The fourth was still inside, wrapped in tissue paper, and she drew it out, unwrapped it, and filled it with red wine from the bottle she had brought into the bedroom with her.

Dinah sat on the floor beside her, legs tucked underneath, watching impassively.

The next item to come out of the box was a woolen scarf. James had been wearing it the night he died. It was one of the few items of his clothing that she had saved. She'd given almost everything to the Salvation Army, keeping only a couple of his sweaters, a few soft t-shirts that she sometimes slept in, and this. She unfolded it from its tissue paper and spread it out over her pajama-clad knees.

She ran her hand across the soft cashmere, then lifted it to her face and rubbed it softly across her cheek. She took a deep breath, then put it down and lifted another tissue-wrapped parcel from the box, this time a tiny white eyelet dress, a dress that had been meant for the baby who was never born. She had kept the things that they had bought for Gabrielle, and the things that had been given to her at the baby showers she had had before everything fell apart.

Her mother had had one for her, inviting all of her female relatives and her mother's friends, and there had been one at the office, too, and she had had no idea what to do with the things after the baby had died. It seemed too upsetting to try to return the things to the stores, and, anyway, she didn't feel like she should benefit financially from it; after all, her friends had given her things in anticipation of the baby actually using them.

Now that there was no baby . . .

The undershirts and tiny socks and hats and diapers were stored in the bottom drawer of her dresser, a drawer that she never opened. She had given a lot of the paraphernalia away to charity, the baby bottles and nipples and baby bags and those kinds of things, but she hadn't been able to force herself to give away the tiny clothes. Especially this little white dress. She had bought it in a sudden impulse while wandering through the baby department on a shopping trip to buy maternity clothes.

She almost hadn't needed any maternity clothes--most of her dresses were soft, flowing things anyway, and she never got very big--but it was fun to look at them, and she had purchased a few pieces that she wore toward the end. She hadn't really expected to buy very many baby things, knowing that she would be given so many things at the showers, but it was fun to look. This little dress, with eyelet trim and a tiny rosebud applique at the neckline, had been too precious to resist.

Now, it rested in the wicker box, never worn, along with James' wedding ring and wallet, the scarf, the wine glass. The last item in the box was in its own box, a white cardboard gift box. She had found it in James' dresser when she finally came home from the hospital, alone. It had obviously been intended as a Christmas gift for her, and had been hidden among his socks.

Gabrielle had been going to be a Christmas baby, or close to Christmas, anyway. For weeks before she had gone into the hospital, they'd been teasing each other with, "What do you want for Christmas?" "Oh, I don't know, how about a baby?" They had agreed not to worry about Christmas gifts for each other, but of course both of them had ignored that. Sarah had bought James a beautiful sterling silver pen set, a practical gift because he was forever losing pens, and James had bought Sarah this--a completely impractical gift--a snow globe.

She drew it out of the box and set it on the floor while she put the box away, then she picked it up and turned it over in her hands. It was a large one, the globe fitting perfectly within her two hands. It sat on a smooth wooden base, and inside the globe was a snowman. She shook it, and snow fell on him, collecting on the brim of his hat and on his silly carrot stick nose.

There was a key set into the bottom of the base, and Sarah carefully wound it. After a scratchy beginning, the tinny music box began to play, "We Wish You a Merry Christmas."

This was the point at which Sarah normally began to cry. She had expected to cry herself to sleep tonight, as she had in the past two times she'd done this, but it didn't seem to be going to happen tonight. Her eyes were wet, she felt a little teary, but the expected flood of tears didn't come. She thought about it for a few moments, felt sorrow, but not the overwhelming grief that had been a part of her life for so long. Maybe that part is over, she thought. Maybe . . . maybe I can put that part of it behind me, finally. She thought about it for a little longer, and wondered if that was okay. She finally decided that it was.

She packed everything carefully away in the box again, and set it on the shelf in the closet. Maybe she didn't have to do this anymore. Maybe it could stay there permanently. Well, she guessed she'd find out next year, or sooner, but for right now, she thought it could stay there. She felt . . . lighter. Happier.

As she turned back to the room from the closet, she saw that she had forgotten the wine glass. Well, it was just a glass after all. She had hoarded it because she didn't want to break the last one, but even if it did break, that didn't affect her memories. They were fading a little, it was true, but she suddenly felt like she didn't need things to make the memories real. She had worried when she couldn't remember things as clearly as she once did--James' face or the touch of his hand--but that was okay now. Life went on. Had Zach done that? Had meeting him helped her turn the corner back into a life in which she continued actually living, rather than just going through the motions?

She carried the wine glass into the kitchen, drank the remaining wine, then carefully washed and dried it and placed it in the cupboard with the other glasses. It was just a thing. She still had her memories. No one could take those away, but she wouldn't let them rule her life any longer.

previous | index | next

weblog | mobile