IN both fiction and reportage, I’ve always made known that the winding down of autumn and ushering of winter puts me in a heavy and philosophical mood. I’m thinking about the deep and very private personal needs of people. A need that when met, gives us a sense of well being, one of them the best Christmas gift we could give, or perhaps receive.
Once it was just an ordinary Christmas box, decorated and given to me by my eldest daughter. But soon, it became the repository of other relics, sacred and outrageous, given to me by the other three. It became my treasure box where I kept my camphor hope chest. Its components were standard — four coloring papers, orange, red, blue and green; wrappers of Toblerone, some little crooked white hearts with scribbles on it, and four crayons (short, fat, thin and thick). This white box was held together by a lot of white paste, smeared with chocolate and wrapped in a Christmas wrapper. IT also contained a handmade rosary that glowed in the dark, a match, a golf ball, and a dried up frog!
Anyway, my Christmas box isn’t looking too good now. It is a little shriveled and moldy where the chocolate and chewing gum (used as hairclip by the youngest) run together. IF you lift the cover, however, anyone will realize why I kept it and took it with me in every place I’ve lived. On folded, faded, and fragile pieces of large lined school papers were words “hello, Mami,” “Hapi Valemstimes,” and a whole lot of “I love you,” and “Meri Christmas.” It had snap shots of their first splash on the deep waters of Hong Kong Seiko Beach as I gasped from a nearby yacht, clutching the loving hands of their grandmother.
As they grew older, when overcome by joy, anger, feeling neglected or abused or whenever emotions ran high; someone is apt to put pen to paper and vent.
“Why can’t I bring Papa’s horse to school as my pet?”
“Please don’t forget to come to my Christmas party or I’ll be “ulila” (orphan) was a note pinned on the Christmas baby’s chest, as I looked in one night coming from a late presscon dinner.
“Ate stayed on the phone for 19 minutes, please don’t tell anybody, even papa.” “Mamatay ang mauna sa peanut butter! (Death to the first one, who gets to the peanut butter).”
“Thank you for letting me wear your red taffeta but forgive me for sleeping on ‘Porgy and Bess,’” was a note tied with four tickets from Radio City.
There were cut out menus from Broadway tickets and playbills and Niagara Falls handmade post card, autographed picture of Joseph in his Technicolor cape. I have counted them more than once. Also, scrawled in several places were names they called themselves – Wonder Woman, Sleeping Beauty, Cockroach, and Mus-Mus. The treasures of the Pirates of the Caribbean are nothing on the face of this.
Does anyone have in his house that magic of the unexplained joy that envelopes you when you need it most? Like an evidence of love in its most uncomplicated and trustworthy state? One can live a whole lifetime, and you may receive Christmas gifts of great value and beauty, or experience tremendous love; but you will never believe in it quite as much as when I look inside that Christmas box. It makes this world with so much pain, stress and mess; go round the ride and be worth all the trouble.
The four girls are all grown up now. They still love me, though it is harder at times to get direct evidence. You see, it is a love that is complicated by age and knowledge, confusing values and the men daughters marry (creatures called sons-in-law). Love, to be sure, but no longer simple. The love of grown up children, is not something you can put inside that magic Christmas box.
That magic box is now nestled in my favorite suitcase. Nobody knows it is there, except me. It is a talisman: like a kind of cairn to memory and I think about it each morning as I dress. This Christmas box was what flashed in my mind, one sad day in spring, when like some horror movie in slow motion. My piercing, helpless wail ripped the night as I saw the huge and heavy ceiling length entertainment center, crashing down on me, shattering my leg, but not my spirit.
Once in a while, I take it out and open it. Nothing can match the joy and bliss it gives me. And it makes me lift my eyes heaven ward in praise of the wonders of the Lord. It is something I can touch and hold and believe in, especially when love gets difficult and there are no longer the small hands around my neck.
My gentle reader will perhaps find this piece as the worst kind a simpleminded heart and ranting mothers drivel on what the best Christmas gift one could hope for.
But the truth is, no mood rings or mantra can soothe me more than gazing at its contents. It stands for my kind of glorious peace like no one else could have.
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E-mail Mylah at [email protected].
