Christmas Without Tiny
The sun had set; pale winter stars filled the dusky, purple sky; and snowflakes swirled slowly blanketing the neighborhood streets. Inside our home the fireplace was lit, a yule log crackling with orange and crimson sparks. Christmas presents lay under the tree. I warmed my hands around a cup of hot cocoa, breathing in the fresh smell of the evergreen adorned with shiny ornaments, twinkling lights, and glistening tinsel. I reached for my doll but was unable to find her. Where’s Tiny?
I patted around me where I sat cross-legged on the rug, rummaging through the pile of presents looking for my favorite doll who was never far from my side.
“Mama, I think Tiny’s lost!” I hurried toward her, panic in my voice.
“Did you look in your closet? Sometimes she hides there.”
I rushed to my room, checked the closet, but no luck. She wasn’t under my bed either.
“Where did you last see her?” Mother asked, when I plopped on the couch out of breath.
I thought back. I’d woken up with Tiny beside me like always, fixing her hair and placing a Christmas bow in it.
“Oh, now I remember. I took her to our school Christmas party! I must’ve left her there! We have to go get her!” I frantically pleaded.
“Darlin’, school’s closed. There’s no way we can get inside the building until after Christmas.”
Christmas without Tiny? “But it’s dark and cold at school. She’ll be lonely and scared…and…and she won’t be able to sleep without me.”
“She’ll be just fine,” Mother said. “Scurry off to bed now, like a big girl.”
“Yes, Mama.” I slid off the couch, glancing back with the most woebegone look I could muster, but Mother was unflappable having returned to reading her magazine. I nestled into bed, pulling the covers tight around me feeling strange and alone having the pillow all to myself. If it was strange for me, how much worse must it be for Tiny? With no bed or covers, not even a coat to keep her warm, and with no one to wake up to on Christmas morning. I buried my face in my pillow, crying myself to sleep.
When the chilling December wind rattled the windowpanes, I awoke with a start and reached for Tiny but felt only my empty pillow. Was Tiny reaching for me now too? Could she hear the wind? Did she think I’d forgotten her? I had so see her and let her know that she wasn’t forgotten.
I jumped out of bed and slipped into my furry slippers, inching my way through the darkness past the Christmas tree and into my parents’ bedroom. I paused in the doorway, listening to their heavy breathing. Maybe Daddy will take me to see Tiny. I tiptoed over to him.
“Daddy," I whispered in his ear and tugged on his pajama sleeve. “Wake up. Wake up.”
Dad’s breathing hitched, and he rolled over. He sat up, flipped on the bedside lamp, and put on his glasses. “What’s wrong, Sweetie Pie?”
“It’s Tiny. She’s lonely and can’t sleep.”
“What?” He blinked in confusion. “What? I don’t understand? Why not?”
“I took her to school for our Christmas party and left her there by accident. She's all alone and doesn’t even have her coat.” I dissolved into tears.
“There, there,” he said, grabbing a handkerchief from his bedside table, dabbing away my tears. “I tell you what. We can’t get into your school to rescue Tiny, but we can drive over to check on her and make sure she’s okay.”
“We can?” I said, my eyes widening. “Really? Right now?”
“Right now. But quietly, we don’t want to wake your mother.”
Dad wrapped me in a blanket and carried me outside, tucking me into the front seat of his pickup truck. We backed out of the driveway and crept along the streets, thick with deep snow. I wiped frost off the truck windows and looked out at the abandoned streets. We seemed to be the only people in the world, just the two of us, like figures in a Christmas snow globe. We’re coming, Tiny!
Dad pulled into the school parking lot, eased his truck up close to my classroom window, and rolled down his window. I held my breath as he leaned out to peek in. “I see her!” he exclaimed, turning back to me and patting my shoulder. “Tiny’s fine. Her eyes are shut. She’s asleep.”
I climbed over to look out myself. I could just about make out my desk, but Where was Tiny? “Are you sure? I can’t see her.”
“Let’s double check.” He backed the truck up even closer to the window, lifted me out of his truck, and carried me to the truck bed where I stood, shivering with the snow biting at the tip of my nose waiting while he grabbed the flashlight from the glove compartment and shined it into the classroom. “Can you see her now? She’s right up there. See?”
The beam of the flashlight swept over the teacher’s desk to a shelf behind it. I pushed up on my tip-toes. There was Tiny settled comfortably, peaceful as could be, along with some other toys—cars, a stuffed bear, a rubber ball, a jack-in-the-box, and a tattered-looking sock puppet. “I see her!” I said. “She IS sleeping! I think she’s okay!”
“See. It’s warm and safe inside,” Dad said. “So Tiny doesn’t need her coat. There are lots of other toys with her, so she won’t be lonely. They’ll all take care of each other. That’s what toys do at Christmastime.” He kissed me on the head, brushing away the snowflakes that had gathered there. “Although Tiny won’t be with you, you won’t be lonely either. You have your family to take care of you. You understand?”
“Yes, Daddy. I do.”
He wrapped me in his arms, hugged me then placed me back into his truck, tucking the blanket around me. On the way home, I fell asleep against his shoulder taking refuge and solace in his tender attentiveness. But it wasn’t until some years later that I realized the significance of this seemingly small but sweet holiday moment.
When I woke Dad in the middle of a blustery winter night, he could’ve easily dismissed my childhood concerns and emotions as insignificant, not worthy of interrupting his sleep, and sent me back to bed. Instead, he was attentive, listening with his heart and responding compassionately. Dad’s attentiveness was his beautifully silent statement of his unconditional love and respect for me even though I was only a child. Not a Christmas season goes by that I don’t think back to that rather poignant holiday memory, grateful for the enduring, timeless Christmas gift of love and respect Dad gave me that year.
Comments