the dry frame shattered into splinters; all our labor
was gone, gone.
"Stop!" cried Chris. "We can keep it for
ourselves!"
Though he ran fast to prevent total destruction, the
fragile painting was ruined. Forever gone. I was in
tears.
Then I was bending down, crying, and picking up
the s
ilk butterflies Cory and Carrie had made so
painstakingly, with so much effort wasted to color the
wings gloriously. Pastel butterflies I was to keep all
my life long.
Chris held me fast in his arms while I sobbed as
he tried to comfort me with fatherly words: "It's all
right. It doesn't matter what she does. We were right,
and she was wrong. We tried. She never tries." We sat on the floor silent now amidst our gifts.
The twins were quiet, their big eyes full of doubts,
wanting to play with their toys, and undecided
because they were our mirrors, and they would reflect
our emotions--whatever they were. Oh, the pity of
seeing them so made me ache again. I was twelve. I
should learn at some time in my life how to act my
age, and hold onto my poise, and not be a stick of
dynamite always ready to explode.
Into our room Momma came, smiling and calling
out her Christmas greetings. She came bearing more
gifts, including a huge dollhouse that once had been
hers . . . and her hateful mother's. "This gift is not from Santa Claus," she said, putting down the house on the floor with great care, and now, I swear, there wasn't one inch of uncluttered space left. "This is my present to Cory and Carrie." She hugged them both, and kissed their cheeks, and told them now they could "pretend house" and "pretend parents" and "pretend host and hostess," just as she used to do when she was
a child of five.