For more than 20 years, I've had an ancient tree skirt, ripped in several places. I could never make myself get rid of it. My mother had made it, long ago, and I remember it being under our tree when I was little. I also remember painting pillow cases and other scraps of cloth with my mother and these "liquid embroidery" paints.
This year I cut it up. I put the pieces of scenes in little frames - gifts for my siblings and our children who are old enough to remember their Nana.
Today I am putting away the Christmas decorations. This piece that I had saved for myself sat on the piano (my mother's piano). It sparkled at me. What? I had never noticed any sparkles on the tree skirt before. It looked as if it had started to snow on the scene.
I stood there, a stuffed Santa decoration in my hands, and rocked slowly back and forth, to see if those sparkles were real. It was a sort of magical moment. Until I realized that the backing on the inexpensive frame had tiny holes, letting pin points of light shine through. But even so, with the magic gone, I walked around the house, holding it up to the morning light, smiling at myself and the snowflakes falling on a minature house.
