21 Christmases

She was Christmas.

Santa hat wearing, chain smoking, coffee refill break taking, big silly grin smattered all over her face, Grandma.

She addressed presents:  To:  Sarah  From: Claude.  Claude was her evil, obese cat who attacked my feet whenever I made the mistake of sitting on the couch.

She swore she knew exactly who touched the presents under the tree, even if we only flipped them to read the tags.

She waited up for me every Christmas Eve so that I would have a happy face greet me when I got back from my dad's.

She made me sit at the top of the stairs until my mother woke up on Christmas morning in an attempt to include her in my astonished surprise at the miracles Grandma created every December 25th.

I still remember the year I came home on Christmas Eve to discover she had already stuffed the stockings.  Years after I knew Santa wasn't real, I was still heartbroken that Grandma had given up waiting until I fell asleep.  She wouldn't let me peek though, just patted me on my head and sent me to my room.

I had her for 21 Christmases.  I woke up 21 years in a row to the most overwhelming feeling I've ever felt.  Grandma loved me like no one else ever could.  And, I didn't know it by the money she spent.  I knew it by the free perfume samples she stuffed into the stocking she knit for me when I was born.  I knew it by the way she spent all year gathering tiny pieces of my life, just to shower me with them beside the tree.  I knew it by the indescribable joy she spread with her own laughter.  I knew it 21 bright and early Christmas mornings in a row.

And, I selfishly pouted when she traveled for two Decembers.  She had other grandchildren she loved just as much as me.  She had other children who deserved to spend that magical time with her.  I hoarded her for so long that I forgot how to share.  I tried not to show it, but I didn't want a holiday that didn't include my Gma.  So, for those two years, I woke up alone in my apartment and vowed to cancel Christmas.  It simply didn't come without her.  

My Christmas was never stuffed in a box or with ribbon and bows, as Dr. Seuss once taught us: my Christmas was so much more.  It was one woman in a Santa hat, cigarette in hand passing out love to little old me.

Two years after our last morning by the tree, Grandma was gone.  A year after that,  I woke up early to wait for my eight month old daughter to enjoy her first Christmas.  Eleven years later, I stuff the stockings of three people who never met the woman who knit the one I still hang alongside of theirs.  And, as I wait for them to fall asleep before dropping perfume samples and propping Santa presents under the tree, I can almost smell her coffee.  I almost see her joy in their excitement at the first sight of the Christmas morning sky.  I almost feel her laughter when they unwrap the socks.  

My Grandma was Christmas.  Now, somewhere high above me, she sits chain smoking, coffee sipping, and smiling.  And, beside her is an obese angry cat that gave great presents.