I hated to let my little granddaughter down, but we would soon be heading out of town for Christmas and had decided not to put up our six-foot artificial tree. It just seemed pointless.
“My angels will have to wait till next year,” I told Mikaila.
Of course I’d miss seeing our tree fill up with angel ornaments—a tradition that started when my friend, Eve, made me a different one each Christmas till arthritis affected her hands.
Now, I hit bazaars, holiday shops and garage sales all year round. Friends and family liked to add to my collection too.
“Please, Grandma?” Mikaila’s big blue eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. How could we say no? Her grandfather and I pulled the tree out of the garage. Mikaila helped us decorate.
“Where’d you get this snow angel?” she asked.
I’d almost forgotten about it. The ornament exchange at work. That got me telling stories. Every time I pulled an angel out of the storage box, another memory surfaced.
There was the angel with a grass skirt that I’d bought when my daughter got married in Hawaii, a metal angel holding a tiny candle from Germany, a tattered angel missing her halo made by one of the kids in school.
How many years had I decorated this tree and never stopped to remember why each ornament meant so much?
I was so busy reminiscing that it took all night to finish our angel tree. But I didn’t mind. It gave me time to give thanks for all of the angels in my life. Especially my curious little granddaughter.
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