Unwrapping Memories

 The sun streaming in through the eastern window touched the golden wing of the dark angel atop the Christmas tree, and set it ablaze. The wall opposite trembled with this sudden rush of glitter flung upon it by the virtue of one rising day coming in contact with the gold-plated curve of the wings. Standing on the stairs, momentarily blinded by this  vision of light and reflections, I smiled as the angel's uplifted eyes met mine. It was beautiful, and the earnestness in its eyes as it held the dove in its outstretched hands bespoke of the desire to be recognised for what it was: a dark angel. Yes, not a blond, fair one, cut out in a Barbie shape, but a dark one, with black curly hair tied in a bun in the back. The light olive green ribbon running down its flowing cream dress read, "An angel to watch over you". I had named it Corrine, after my Afro-American art student, who, over the years, had also became a good friend...In fact, I bought it as a way to reaffirm my belief that racism was a dying institution in America... little did I know that two and a half years later, the great monster of Racism will rear its ugly head in the form of George Floyd, killed by a chokehold in a police encounter. 

And that beautiful glass ornament with hand-painted fire-weeds emblazoned on its surface, was bought at Women's Christmas Bazaar in UAF (University of Alaska, Fairbanks). My son got it for me from the money he used to earn as a guitar accompanist to the violin students, during their annual performances. He was only nine years old then, and very much in demand. For every practice and performance, he was paid $20! That was, at that time, more than twice the average minimum hourly  wage in the country. He got so loaded for his tiny self, he felt compelled to open a bank account with the good old Wells Fargo. 

Ah, and this one! This is older than my son...my sister gave it to us on the Christmas I was pregnant. It is a beautiful bell, made out of papier mâché, in Kari Kalamdani style, specific to Kashmiri region. She had bought it from the famous Cottage emporium in Delhi, when it was still tucked away on a tiny side lane off Janpath Road. Filled with several cozy comforts and beautiful handcrafted items, it had its quaint rationale vis-a-vis the layout, but for the regulars, not only did it make perfect sense, but also rendered it that much more exciting. The thrill of finding something, in a place where it is least expected, was like finding a rainbow  stretched out against a shimmering blue sky.

And, do you remember this one? "Yes, I do...my friend Gabe whittled it with his Swiss Army knife out of a spruce twig..." Dan's voice is already trailing off as he dips into nostalgia...I remember it too, so vividly. During the bash Gabe's parents had organised on the occasion of his tenth birthday, sadly he was the one who seemed the most out of place, and had quietly sneaked out, in a twenty below temperature, into the woods buried in snow. No one noticed his absence until it was time to cut the cake and the kids were getting impatient. They found him in the woods of course, his pockets bulging with kindlings whittled into miniature totems, wolves' tails, raven's eyes and what not. All the attendees received one of his masterpieces as a return gift. Ours, in the shape of a totem pole, flaunted bits of dried grass tied into a bow to fit snugly into one of its grooves. It makes a perfect ornament for our tree and has adorned it religiously for over a decade: a loyal reminder of a boy who could see shapes trapped inside shapeless kindlings and set them free  with the help of a Swiss Army knife.

This one, a Santa Claus hat streaming out some random Scrabble  tiles is from my friend Desirée. An expression not only  of our everlasting friendship, but also of our mutual love for board games, specially Scrabble...Desirée, a lawyer by profession had given up her career to homeschool her two sons. So, truly speaking, it was through her I learnt the ropes of homeschooling, which also included ways to manoeuvre the system in order to make the most of this available option. 

I hear Dan snickering, while readjusting the small naked angel with a cute bum...he would like the bum to be on the outside, in full view, for it is indeed very ample and innocent looking, and I get his point. Krysta, the first good friend I ever made in Albany gifted it to me during an exchange-ornament event at her place. Shy and humble, yet brilliantly competitive and confident, friends like Krysta are a rare find. She was always there for me whenever I needed her, always ready for a cuppa, for a stroll, for a good laugh, for a drive... always prepared to go that extra mile to help out, and even to indulge. We never had much in common, except our goodwill. And that took us a long way...

Should I go on, or should I leave some stories for another rainy day? For the ornaments in the trees are many, and the stories they summon from their recondite subliminal depths, many more...