Everyone has Christmas traditions. Special meals, gift-giving rituals, travel plans. Our family wasnāt any different, I thought. But the tradition my family started ended up saving lives.
It was all about the tree. No, we didnāt go out every year to cut down a perfect specimen. Weāve had the same fake, plastic tree since before I was born; it had survived the 80s without me ever seeing that decade at all, a nineties baby through and through. Faded green plastic needles, and wire poking out from a few branches. Mom used to spray pine oil on it to give it that āauthenticā tree aroma, that wonderful, chemical perfume that melted the plastic and made the tree sticky to the touch without fooling anyone into thinking for even a second that it had once stood in a forest somewhere. I loved every tacky, ancient, festive inch of it.
I remember the first year our tradition started. I was six, and my baby sister had been born just a few months ago, too young to really appreciate her first Christmas. Mom sealed her hospital tag in an empty ornament and hung it on the tree.
āWe should add our own special memories to it.ā Sheād beamed. āWe can all add something every year to remind us about the good things that had happened.ā
The next day my father added a silver locket to a high up branch with my sisterās initial. S for Sally. He smiled, watching it spin, reflecting the twinkling lights.
For six year old me, a decision of this magnitude wasnāt an easy task. I considered adding my favourite toy, but mom reminded me that all the decorations go away for an entire year. I couldnāt bear the thought of my bunny being locked for so long in the dark garage; I hated being there alone myself. The damp smell and single flickering bare lightbulb was the stuff of six year old meās nightmares.
The following day I saw my big brotherās addition. A plastic spider. He did it on purpose! He knew I was terrified of them. I saw his grin from across the room as I side- eyed the unsavoury ornament.
I remember complaining to mom but she insisted that we get one pick, and if my brother wanted to waste his chance on a prank then I would just have to let him.
Another week passed, and I still couldnāt decide. This year was big for me; it was my first year of school. Iād met new friends and every day, every little trinket, was so special. Eventually, though I found it. The memory I wanted to be on a tree forever. A polaroid from my birthday partyāmy friends and my family crowded around the table as I blew out the candles. But it wasnāt the cake or the presents that made my little heart flutter back then. It was a boy that sat next to me at the table, my very first crush. His laugh made my stomach do flip-flops every time I heard it, which was every day of school. Funnily enough now I canāt even remember his name.
Mom didnāt question it. She carefully cut out a hole and threaded a piece of ribbon through it, letting me find a place for it among colourful baubles.
Thus the tradition was born.
The next year we all knew the assignment and had our decorations ready. Mom added a Volkswagen keychain to celebrate her new car. She also made a little decoration on my sisterās behalf. Her favourite pacifier, to celebrate her finally managing to give it up.
Once again, my brother displayed his level of maturity by adding a beer can tag on a string. Mom gave him a disapproving look but didnāt protest. Earlier in the year my parents had caught him drinking so technically this counted as a memory.
Personally I thought mine was the best one. Iād spent days on it. Looking at the glitter and paint monstrosity now I feel a wee bit embarrassed about my cockiness at the time, but I was only seven. The bedazzled pinecone was a memento from a camping trip that summer. My first real trip out of state and a few nights spent sleeping under the stars.
I wasnāt the only one who wanted to commemorate camping. My father hung a bow made out of the shoelaces from his hiking boots, worn out and frayed. I remember the striped pattern. He hadnāt bothered washing them, so they were still caked in mud.
The next year wasnāt as joyous. My father lost his job, and mom had to work extra shifts. I barely saw either of them. My brother cooked dinner most nights. Meat became a luxury, and if mom did bring a pack of ground beef with her weekly shop she had to stretch it thin. Soup and Chilli on bread. It was all I could remember from that year. No outings, no new clothes and when Christmas came... No presents.
At that age, my biggest worry was anyone finding out. So I lied to my friends about the mountain of boxes under the tree.
Soup, Chilli and lies. How could I commemorate it for the Christmas ornament tradition?
Mom tried to lift our spirits.
āHow about we add decorations with extra wishes? Ever heard of a Christmas miracle?ā She kissed me on the cheek as I sat pouting on her lap. A little part of me wanted to believe her.
āIāll start then.ā My father came into the room, an empty leather wallet in his hand. He took a piece of paper and drew a crude hundred dollar note. Placing it inside, he hung the wallet on the tree.
My brother seeing a smile on my face, followed suit.
āI wish to find a girlfriend next year.ā He cut out a bikini-clad model from the mail order catalogue and hanged the stunning brunette on a brunch.
Mom nudged me towards the tree. āGo on, wish for something.ā
A million wishes raced through my head. I couldnāt pick just one. I agonised over it, before finally tucking my bunny- well loved, battered, and filthy, into the tree.
I want us to be happy again.
A Christmas miracle. I never doubted it again. My father got a well-paid supervising job at a new car manufacturing plant. Mom was able to stay home, and surprisingly enough my brother brought home a girl. A Christmas miracle indeed. Someone dumb enough to tolerate his ass, and boy was she pretty. Tall, with bronze skin and sun- bleached brown hair. Jess. She could have stepped out of the pages of the magazine my idiot brother cut her out of. She was nice too! Iād get a treat every time she visited. A chocolate bar or a new set of hair ties. I think I loved her more than my brother ever had.
Time flew by, and so did the Christmases. Two years later, she joined us in putting on her own memories. Two golden rings sparkled in the tree. One from my brother and one from her. A memory and a wish for the wedding to come.
A wedding that never happened.
Jess disappeared. Just before Christmas. A miracle that was taken as suddenly as it was given.
The Christmas tree didnāt go up that year. No memories, no wishes.
I couldnāt let it go. I believed. I believed that a wish on that tree could help. I believed it with all my heart.
So that year, while the house was empty, I dragged the dust-covered box from the garage and began the yearly ritual. I was following a spell recipe. The tree, the lights, the tinsel. Then came the memories. One by one. Year by year I added them, placing the rings on last.
But the spell needed more for the miracle to happen.
I looked through my motherās bedroom and found a bridal catalogue. Poor mom had
been so excited to help Jess find the dress. Carefully I cut out the blushing bride and tied
her onto a string. Then my little sister. A toy. After all, she was still young. Kids only care for toys.
My brotherās room was dark, filled with bottles and laundry. He rarely left it these days, consumed by his grief. I stole her photo from the frame next to his bed. He would forgive me when a miracle happened. I didnāt doubt his wish.
The last one was from my dad. Iāve turned on the flickering light in his shed out back, looking for something that called out to me. Tools, camping gear, cleaning and lawn supplies. I went through the drawers under the workbench. More tools, oil-stained bolts and old batteries. Drawer after drawer full of junk; I was ready to give up and tie an ancient wrench to the tree when I opened the last drawer. Inside it was a box full of broken trinkets. Pieces of chain, single earrings. Keychains. Among them, I found a golden hoop. Jess used to love wearing her oversized gold hoops. She had hundreds of pairs; she said they made her feel like a pop star.
My father would want her back too. He was so fond of her.
I added a chain to the earring and took it back inside. It joined the other wishes on the tree. Only one ingredient remained. My wish.
āPlease...we need a miracle.ā I prayed, adding a simple paper star crudely cut out of yellow paper.
To this day, I donāt doubt it. That miracles are possible if we ask for them. My wish came true. They found Jess in our own backyard.
I remember momās sobs. My brotherās agonising screams, the holes he left in the drywall.
I remember the policemen all over our living room. I remember them taking our memories and our wishes.
The earring I found was Jessās. She was wearing it in the photo I had taken from my brother. A single strand of her perfect brunette hair caught in the latch matched samples taken from her decaying scalp.
The wallet that brought us the miracle of wealth had belonged to an aspiring actress killed in a park.
The shoelace bows werenāt just a memento of a fun camping trip. The stains I had innocently believed was just dark mud were mingled with the blood of a young female hiker who had gone missing while my family enjoyed sāmores by the campfire.
And the locket. No. It didnāt stand for our Sally, my little sisterās name on the year of her birth. āSā was for Sandra. Sandra was found strangled in a creek half a mile from my fatherās old job.
āA true Christmas miracle.ā Said the detective, bagging my last wish. The last of our tradition that had saved lives.
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