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An Angel’s Value…
One woman’s possessions are not of value…
The above angel is very much like the decorations my mother made for me.
I’m not thinking about the angel in “It’s a Wonderful Life.”
I’m thinking of an old plastic one or maybe even bakelite, because it was very old.
This angel was about ten inches tall and its white robe had aged to yellow. Remarkably, it still had its wings, a wand with a star, and ethereal white hair. She sat on top of every tree in my unremarkable childhood, even the year before I was born and she eventually sat on top of my Christmas trees, married, divorced, single-alone and one year in a new marriage.
But now she’s lost — hidden somewhere in a box of “my” Christmas decorations — not my husband’s “Victorian” ones that I’m afraid to use because of cat paws — but mine, placed in a storage bin and then placed in a storage shed and essentially forgotten.
All the decorations I collected during my aloneness, trying to make an alone- Christmas happy for me.
Decorations made by my long-dead mother, decorations from places I lived or visited — my memories. The operative word here is “my”.
And no one can find them, along with my collection of Santas.
