We all know how a photograph can bring back a flood of memories. There we are in black and white – my cousin and I, perched on Santa’s lap in Woodward’s Department Store, downtown Vancouver. I must be somewhere on the edge of eight years old. The two of us are quite a lapful for Santa, stuffed as we are into our thick winter coats and leggings. British Columbia tends to be soggy and rainy in December. I can almost see the steam rising from those wooly garments, and from Santa’s suit, for that matter. Both our mothers are single moms and somewhat overprotective, given to bundling us up against the elements. I am sure that Santa will be relieved when we finally roll off his lap – he must be hoping that the next child will be smaller and less substantially clothed.
Who knows why we are giggling. Soulmates, we never stop giggling. But here in this moment my cousin is managing to sit prettily for the camera, a sweet little smile on her face. I, on the other hand, am squirming uncontrollably, for I am being tickled in the ribs by Santa. Yes, it’s true. I remember it clearly. Why I was chosen, I suppose I will never know.
Our Christmases revolve around each other. She and I always Christmas shop together for our mothers, turned loose in Newberry’’s Five and Ten with a dollar or two to do the best we can. These slim budgets limit our choices, but we pretty much have it decided ahead of time. It will be either handkerchiefs, powder puffs, or “Evening in Paris” cologne in the heart shaped indigo bottle. This is what we can afford, and what we are sure will delight their hearts. If we’re lucky, we might just have enough change left to stop at the candy counter with those huge glass bins. That’s where we can get a chocolate drop with the gooey pink center. One for each of us.
I don’t know what our moms did with the cologne but I’m relatively sure they never wore it, as it was not a scent to be desired. Still, as far as we could tell on Christmas morning, they were thrilled and surprised, as though we had wrapped up diamond necklaces or pearl earrings for them. I did not fully understand at the time that those little gifts were our childish attempts to make up for the sadness in their lives, the burden of being single moms. Yes, children know. And I like to think that for a few moments, on this one day of the year when we remember the greatest gift ever given, it worked.