Here comes December again. Time to descend into the basement past the still unpacked boxes of books (well, it’s only been two years since we moved) and fumble around in the Christmas bins, I know it’s down here somewhere, one of the first I will set up. Oh, there it is. Thank goodness I remembered to label it “Snowmen” .
I grab the box and climb the stairs into the coziness above. Searching through the box, I find him. Yes, there he is, wrapped in tissue. The little porcelain snowman, arms outstretched, grins up at me, ready to hold his candle. Gingerly I unwrap him and set him up on the hutch along with his more humble Dollar Store buddies. He never seems to mind hanging out with them. It’s then that the memory comes flooding back with full force.
She comes on my caseload as a freshman, this gentle brown eyed girl, and somehow from the first day she is mine. Sometimes it just happens that way. No bumps in the road. Well, maybe a few around issues with Pythagoras and his theorem, but she hangs in there and lets me feed it to her in bite sized pieces.. Soon she’s conquered him.
She, her mom and I become a great team and the good grades come rolling in. She’s eager to learn, responsible, latching on to whatever we tackle together and making it her own. Mom is always there behind the scenes, cheering us both on, so quick to appreciate my efforts. Any excuse for a gift, and Alexa brings one in to me. Something beautiful, whimsical, useful. At Christmas time, it’s the exquisite Spode snowman.
But I can’t help but notice mom’s labored breathing. It hurts me to watch her struggling for breath in the meetings. Then the moment comes when mom takes me aside and tells me that she is fighting an incurable lung disorder, and is gradually losing ground to this monster. No remedies. One day Alexa comes into school and pulls me aside. “Mom is in the hospital. It’s really bad, Mrs. K.” Not many days later, we get the unspeakable news. This adorable fifteen year old has lost her mother.
I never dreamed that this job would include grief counseling. But this becomes my most important role in Alexa’s life. Little by little, over the next few months, she emerges into the beautiful young woman who reflects her mother’s spirit. When she moves away in her senior year, it’s my turn to sorrow. Then one morning just before Christmas, I reach into the mailbox and am surprised by a Christmas card from Florida. “It’s not the same without you,” she writes.
Alexa, I can say the same thing to you.