Special morning

I never spend Christmas with my mother anymore. It's been over thirty years. But every year she faithfully sends huge boxes of gifts for everyone in the family. She is outrageously extravagant. She made Christmas magic for me as a child and she continues to do so. Every December I can always count on a special, personal "mother-type" gift for me. She knows just what I will like. One year it was a soft, powder blue robe, another year a long flannel nightgown. I like to open these gifts alone beside the tree, in the quiet stillness of dawn. That way I can spend private time with thoughts of the mother I love so dearly.

Today Fred left early and the girls were still asleep. I looked through the packages my mother sent. Some had warnings on them for me--"Don't open before Christmas!" My mother is like that. She always tells me to wait. But she doesn't realize how I treasure this one morning. Still, I choose a large box with no warning label on it. And I also find a small, squishy gift. Before the lighted tree I slowly unwrap her presents. I always picture her hands doing the wrapping. It's funny how we remember hands. Maybe because as small children we see our mothers' hands down at our level. The little package, wrapped in a fancy brocade paper with a curled ribbon contains two pairs of Christmas socks, whimsically decorated with reindeer and snowflakes. I smile. She knows I like silly socks. Then the bigger box. I cut the ribbon and inside is something soft wrapped in red tissue paper, carefully taped. My mother doesn't rush wrapping gifts like I do. She never rushed us kids either. She always took time for us. I take the paper off. The gift is a beautiful fleece zip jacket in blue, L.L. Bean. I can hear her say, "That color will look good on you with your eyes." The jacket is warm, earthy, comfortable--like my mom. Tears spring up in my eyes. She is such a good mother. She has so many kids, so many grandkids, yet each gift is thoughtfully chosen so we each feel special, like we are the only one. In the twinkly light of my living room, I whisper, "Thank you, Mother. Merry Christmas."