it would be Cory's made of yellow, with green and
black splotches, and tiny little red stone eyes. Our
trees were made of brown cording, combined with
tiny tan pebbles to look like bark, and the branches
gracefully entwined so brightly colored birds could perch or fly between the leaves. Chris and I had taken chicken feathers from old pillows and dipped them in watercolors, and dried them, and used an old toothbrush to comb the matted hairs, and make them
lovely again.
It may be conceited to say that our picture showed
signs of true artistry, and a great deal of creative
ingenuity. Our composition was balanced, yet it had
rhythm, style . . . and a charm that had brought tears
to our mother's eyes when we showed it to her. She
had to turn her back so we, too, wouldn't cry. Oh, yes,
by far this collage was the very best piece of artwork
we had as yet turned out.
Trembling, apprehensive, I waited to time my
approach so her hands would be empty. Since the
grandmother never looked at Chris, and the twins
were so terrified of her they shriveled in her presence,
it was up to me to give her the gift . . . and darned if I
could make my feet move. Sharply, Chris nudged me
with his elbow. "Go on," he whispered, "she'll go out
the door in a minute."
My feet seemed nailed to the floor. I held the long
red package across both my arms. From the very
positioning it seemed a sacrificial offering, for it
wasn't easy to give her anything, when she had given us nothing but hostility, and was waiting her chance to
give us pain.
That Christmas morning, she succeeded very well
in giving us pain, even without a whip or a word. I wanted to greet her in the proper way and say,
"Merry Christmas Day, Grandmother. We wanted to