Here comes December again. So I climb our creaky attic stairs, clad in sweats and my warmest, thickest sweater, and fumble around in the Christmas boxes. I know it’s up here somewhere, one of the first I will take down. Oh, there it is. Thank goodness I remembered to label it “snowmen” last year. I have no desire to spend any time in the attic. The first snow of the season is coating the ground and it is icy cold up here.
I grab the box and descend into the warmth below. 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 a candle. Gingerly I unwrap him and set him up on the hutch a
long 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 bits. 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 confides to me that mom is in the hospital, and not many days later, we get the horrific news that she didn’t make it. 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 mom’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.
