Read Online A Christmas Wish by Joseph Pittman - Free Book Online Page A

tree?”
    â€œA tree? You mean a Christmas tree? Of course we are.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œWhen would you like to get it?”
    â€œWhat day is it?”
    â€œIt’s Sunday.”
    â€œNo, the date.”
    â€œOh, it’s December fourth.”
    â€œIn two weeks, I think. Momma and I, we would always go and cut down a tree in the middle of December, so we could have the tree decorated for a while. You remember I told you that at Thanksgiving? I like to see it all lit up, with that shiny stuff.”
    â€œYou mean tinsel?”
    â€œI don’t think so.” She paused, mused on the word. “No, that’s not it.”
    â€œIcicles?”
    â€œYes, yes, the shiny strings!” she said. “I love how they look on the tree, but they sure do make a mess of the floor when you take the tree down.”
    â€œI call that messy stuff tinsel.”
    â€œWhy are they called two different things?”
    â€œI don’t know. Sometimes the same thing has the same meaning, but has two words to describe it. I pointed to the near-empty mugs between us. “Hot chocolate is the same thing as hot cocoa.”
    â€œThat’s weird,” she said.
    â€œYes, it is. At least we agree on calling our drink hot chocolate.”
    She was unconvinced still. “Now I’m not sure what to call them. Icicles or . . . tinsel. You and Momma used different names. So that makes them different traditions.”
    Okay, how to handle this one? I gave it some thought, Janey just staring up at me as if I had magic answers floating above me, ready for the picking at the right moment. Parenting didn’t work that way. “If you think about it, Janey, even though they go by two different names, ultimately it’s the same thing, creating the same result. Tinsel or icicles by any other name would still produce a beautiful, glistening Christmas tree.”
    She thought about that. “Good one, Brian.”
    Phew.
    â€œSo, can we? You know, get the tree?”
    â€œOf course, consider it done,” I told her.
    â€œHuh? Why should we pretend it’s done? Where’s the fun in that? Chopping the tree down is almost my favoritist part.”
    â€œIt’s going to take me a little while to get used to all your traditions, Janey.”
    â€œI can help.”
    â€œOh yeah? How?”
    â€œFollow me.”
    She left her room and padded down to the end of the hall, where she opened the door that led to the attic. Trailing behind her, I flicked on the lights to guide our way. It was cold up here, but Janey seemed impervious to it, so determined now in her mission that nothing could stop her. Amidst the sea of memorabilia that contained the Sullivan family history—and before them, the history of the defunct Van Diver family, who had built the farmhouse and the windmill—were several cardboard boxes marked X-MAS in handwriting I recognized as Annie’s. Even deep in the attic, where the past came alive, we felt her presence.
    As I pulled the boxes from the tight corner, Janey tore off the tops, revealing a burst of decorations, lights, shiny balls, and other trinkets that would be set on the fireplace mantel or on the walls or upon the doors. There was also an envelope marked P ICTURES , and when I opened it I discovered they were photographs of a Christmas past. Annie in her bathrobe, Janey in hers, the two of them surrounded by gifts and boxes and discarded wrapping paper. Janey squealed in delight when she saw them, telling me these were from last year, she knew, because that’s when she had gotten the sled, the one we had been using today.
    â€œSee the sled in the background of that photo . . . I remember, because last Christmas there was no snow and so I couldn’t use it that day. I was bummed,” she said. “I guess Momma never had time to put these in a photo album. Look, there’s one of Cynthia and Bradley, they came over last year, I