Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
When I heard that, I arranged an outing to a tree farm last week, where Grace and I let Riley choose our tree. She’d walked the rows for over an hour, looking for the right one, and when we got it home, she cried when we set it up, calling it the prettiest tree she’s ever seen. I agree with her—it is pretty, not because it’s big or full or covered in ornaments, but because it’s ours.
It’s still not quite on the level of the Christmas magic Mom creates. But not many things are. She always goes all out with lights, trees—yes, plural because there at least four, a figurine village display, garlands, a pair of seven-foot-tall nutcrackers by the door, and more. She and Ira spend weeks getting it all set up and then will spend just as long packing it all away.
For all the fanciness, my favorite tree is the one in the family room where we are now. It’s the one Mom does strictly by herself, placing each sentimental ornament carefully. Her gentle care is the only reason the popsicle stick snowman from my kindergarten class party has survived. The same is true for countless other imperfect, messily assembled, and marker-date noted pieces from each of her kids.
Grace finishes passing all the presents out, and we all look around to see who’s going to start. We’re one of those families that passes everything at once but then watches while each present is opened one at a time so we can ooh and aah over everything. As a kid, it was absolute, pure torture. Now, I enjoy it.
Opening gifts this way also means we all get to watch Riley excitedly rip open each and every perfectly wrapped box. I conspired with my daughter this time, and the present we got Riley is at the bottom of her stack so that she’ll open it last. But Grace is getting impatient. Honestly, so am I.
“Your turn, Riley-Miley-Ding-Dong!” Grace exclaims, grabbing for the small box from us both.
Riley laughs. “Not sure that’s it either.”
They are still actively trying out names for Grace to call Riley, which has led to weeks of increasingly creative combinations. Honestly, I think they’ll settle on Mom, and I’m shockingly okay with that. I think Michelle would be too. Grace never called Michelle that when she was alive. Back then, she was Momma or Mommy because Grace was so young. It wasn’t until she was much older, and long after Michelle had passed, that Grace transitioned to calling her Mom because that’s what her friends called their mothers. So if Grace and Riley do indeed land on Mom, I’ll accept that happily, but I’m not going to put any pressure on them while they’re having so much fun trying out silly names.
“It’s from us, me and Dad!” Grace tells her. She’s nearly jumping out of her skin with excitement and Riley is already smiling as she glances back and forth from Grace to me.
She freezes for a second, and I can see her intentionally and fully appreciating the moment before she rips into the red and green plaid wrapping paper. Inside, there’s a wooden jewelry box the size of a photograph but about two inches thick.
Riley peeks up at me and then opens the box.
I know what she’s looking at, but in case there was any doubt, Grace announces, “It’s a charm necklace!”
“Oh, my goodness,” Riley breaths, her fingers dancing lightly over the charms. “It’s gorgeous.” She picks it up, examining it even closer, and I tell her the history of the chunky, double-layered, chain-link gold necklace with dozens of charms on it, knowing that she, of all people, will appreciate it.
“I wanted to get you the loudest piece of jewelry I could find. There’s even a tiny bell charm so it literally jingles as you walk.” Riley, who was starting to tear up, laughs at that, and my family chuckles too, not understanding the significance of her loud jewelry but knowing that Riley’s clinging and clanging is an undeniable part of her charm. “I found it on an auction site. The previous owner collected the charms over the years to commemorate important milestones. There’s a dove, a baby shoe, a piano, an Eiffel tower, some gems that are probably birthstones, the state of Colorado, and more. I left it the way it was, unpolished, because I didn’t know if you’d prefer it with the patina of the life it’s led or want it fresh and clean. But I bought the polish and can do that if you want?”
As I guessed she would, she grasps the necklace to her chest and tells me, “No, I love it just like this.” The tears are back, slowly streaming down her cheeks, but she’s smiling so big that I can see her little fang tooth. Fuck, I love that thing. Such a small, tiny piece of who she is, but each of those little details makes her special. Just like the charms on this necklace.