He was a secret last Christmas. He was there, newer than new, hidden from everyone in the world but my husband and me. I knew about him as I watched our other children open gifts and eat their Christmas morning cinnamon rolls. Long before he took over my body, he took over everything invisible and unseen in my core.
He was big before he was big.
Our current Christmas tree is holding up well. The branches support the weight of the ornaments. The needles are still soft and it smells wonderful. A year ago, it was still root-bound. Birds sat on it. Snow covered it. It grew and thrived despite the elements. Heat and cold, wind, too much water, too little, small animals, large animals, always an assault of some sort.
And then, it was harvested.
The tree may have anticipated a bird or a shawl of snow to weigh down a short bough near the top. I hung teeny tiny mittens. It was with pleasure, honor, gratefulness. It was done acknowledging a crazy-sweet year and the month of frustration waiting in bed, day after day after long summer day, for him to be born.
Teddy’s name is written on the cuff. Teddy, meet Christmas. Christmas, you remember Teddy?
Yes. He was the one I told you about last year.
