you."
She didn't look at me, not really, she only saw my
hair--for some reason she was fascinated by my hair. "Remember, Cathy, she did give us yellow
chrysanthemums." He was right--that alone was a
strong straw to grasp.
In the late afternoon, toward dusk, Momma came
to our room bearing a live Christmas tree in a small
wooden tub. A balsam tree--what could smell more
like Christmas? Momma's wool dress was of bright
red jersey; it clung and showed off all the curves I
hoped to have one day. She was laughing and gay,
making us happy, too, as she stayed to help us trim
the tree with the miniature ornaments and lights she'd
brought along. She gave us four stockings to drape on
the bedposts for Santa to find and fill.
"Next year this time we'll be living in our own
house," she said brightly, and I believed.
"Yes," said Momma, smiling, filling all of us with
cheer, "next year this time life will be so wonderful
for all of us. We'll have plenty of money to buy a
grand home of our own, and everything you want will
be yours. In no time at all, you'll for- get this room,
the attic. And all the days you have all endured so
bravely will be forgotten, just like it never happened." She kissed us, and said she loved us. We watched
her leave and didn't feel bereft, as before. She filled
all our eyes, all our hopes and dreams.
Momma came in the night while we slept. In the
morning I woke up to see the stockings filled to the
brim. And gifts galore were stacked under the small
table where the tree was, and in every empty,