Christmas Through a Child's Eyes by Helen Szymanski

right now, all by himself? The pain of it pressed down on me with such weight that I finally dragged myself out of bed and trailed through the quiet house to the kitchen, tears running down my cheeks.
    Lost in my misery, I didn't notice my mother sitting in her white wooden rocker. But she saw me. With gentle hands, she drew me into her lap and let me sob against her shoulder.
    â€œWhat's wrong, honey?”
    Too sad and ashamed to tell her, I whispered, “I don't know.” And then I cried some more, for the lie I had told.
    â€œEverything seems harder when you're tired,” she said. “Just go to sleep, and things will be brighter in the morning.”
    Her hand was soft on my hair, the house quiet around us. Surrounded by her love, filled with love for her and for the daddy who had cared enough about me to give me a present, even if it wasn't a doll or a kitchen, the ache within began to ease. I let the old, familiar creaking of the rocking chair lull me to sleep.
    Many Christmases have come and gone since then. The furry red playtoy has gone the way of all toys. But the gift my mother gave me there in her old white rocker — her gentle love wrapped in wise words and comforting arms — that gift lives as fresh and evergreen in my heart as if it were given just last night.

A Good Song for Shaving
    BY FRANCES HILL ROBERTS

    I n 1945, I woke to the predawn darkness of my eighth Christmas and decided this was the day I would ask. As though the boldness of my thought had disturbed their sleep, my sisters, Sarah and Beth, turned in perfect unison to face opposite walls, pulling the blanket taut and sending a draft across my bird-slip shoulders. I burrowed deeper under the covers between them and wondered if they were dreaming of fat red men pushing glittery toys down sooty chimneys.
    Magic, for me, lay closer to home — in hands calloused from caring, in a voice that bellowed us to supper by a slanted sun on short winter days — in the sounds of snoring, drifting down spooky hallways, assuring me that all was well. In the comfort of my bed, I wiggled in anticipation: This was the day I would ask.
    When I woke a second time, it was to the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. Mama was awake. Leaving the warmth of my blanketed womb, I crawled to the foot of the bed and stepped onto the icy linoleum. My feet flew down the freezing stairs to the warmth of the kitchen with the speed of hummingbirds' wings. There, I climbed into a chair to watch my parents' morning rituals.
    My mother frowned. “What are you doing up so early?”
    â€œI couldn't sleep,” I said, praying she would let me stay.
    Mama nodded in understanding, then smiled. “Well, as long as you don't get underfoot, you can stay.” Walking to the foot of the stairs, she called, “Tom! Water's heating.”
    My father walked in, smelling of yesterday's undershirt and wood shavings caught in the cuffs of his trousers. A superstitious man, he thought it bad luck to bathe at night, so he woke each morning littered with labor from the day before. His hair was askew with cowlicks and dark stubble covered his face.
    Just then, Sarah and Beth wandered into the room rubbing sleepiness from their eyes. “Did he come?” they asked.
    â€œThis is all he left,” my father said with a grin, reaching under the table and pulling out a bucket filled with coal for feeding the fire-breathing furnace in the cellar below.
    â€œHush, Tom,” Mama said, a frown appearing on her unlined face. “You'll spoil their Christmas!” Glancing at her children, she smiled. “You can have your stockings while you eat breakfast,” she said, as she unpinned the stockings from the windowsill.
    The stockings were identical, for my father always wore black socks. The bulge in the toe was the size of an orange; the foot, lumpy with walnuts; the leg, apple shaped; and a peppermint candy cane peeked over the top. I peeled my orange