"Whose sled is that?, I asked, pointing to an old red sled in the rafters of the garage of my parent's house.
"It's mine", my father said.
"Can I have it?"
"Yes".
It was another day of clearing out my parent's house, readying it for sale.
My father made no move to get a ladder to retrieve the sled. Instead, he steadied himself against the workbench to his right.
"There was another sled", he said, "before this one."
Oh?"
"Yes, this was the second sled".
"Where did you get it?"
"Your grandfather made it".
"Well, where is the first one?" "Did Grampie make that one too?"
"Yes, your grandfather made it for me, but I refused to use it. He sent it down to some relatives in Digby",
"Ohhhh", I said, in a soft gentle exhalation. My father had mild cognitive deficit at this time, still very verbal, and narrative, and sweetly now, much more open about things remembered.
My father took a breath then, and so did I. Neither of us moved as he looked at my face, in a way that was newly familiar to me, checking the openness of my eyes and the softness of my mouth; maybe for my readiness to listen or taking a second to confirm his confidence in telling, or maybe both.
"Your grandfather made a smaller one, one that fit me, but I didn't like it. I wanted one the same size as Jim's and the other kid's".
My father was a small man, with small hands and fine bones, like his mother, excellent for fine motor work on small motors drawings or other designs. My grandmother's hands made quilts, sweaters, clothing, and baking. I have these same hands, always reaching for something to make, and more recently something to write.
"Whenever we went anywhere, your grandfather, Uncle Jim, and I, no matter what it was, I was offered the small one". It didn't matter what it was", he repeated. They would say, "You'll be wantin' the small one. It could have been a hammer, a bottle of pop....it didn't matter what it was, they would look at me and say, 'Well, you'll be wantin' the small one".
"Oh", I said, tilting my head to the left, pressing my lips together gently, then nodding, to signal an understanding.
The sled has been in my basement under the stairs since I brought it home, 5 years ago. I dug it out, today, from under the boots, picture frames, and old blankets that had found a home on top of it.
My father loved to decorate the outside of our house and our yard for Christmas. He didn't help with the tree or the wreath on the door, but he always decorated outside. I remember a handmade wooden cut-out Santa and two reindeer on the roof of the house, colored lights along the roofline, white lights twinkling in the hedge that outlined our yard, and one year, a papier-mache partridge and burnt-out lightbulbs painted yellow, for a partridge in a pear tree.
This afternoon while Jim made chicken soup, I decorated the sled and placed it in front of the fireplace in the sunroom, a room that my father loved and the room where I covered him with a blanket one afternoon when he had come for a visit so my mom could go to Bingo. "Thanks for taking care of me", he had said, before he fell sound asleep with the fire on.
"I'm not usually nostalgic at Christmas", I said to Jim when we were having coffee this afternoon.
"No", he said. "It's usually me".
This Christmas I have the luxury of allowing nostalgia to creep around the corner and find me unaware. To show up in my baking and making. To remember words, stories, and things made with hands. To recall offerings of love, spoken and unspoken, however small and not immediately obvious. And to celebrate this amazing life that offers us opportunities to grieve, to forgive and to love, all at the same time.
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