Their baby died. The child was beautiful. Large head, blue eyes, ribbons in her hair.

It was a few days before Christmas when it happened. Her family was in town. The house was alive with people.

Her husband placed their almost one-year-old beside him in bed for a nap. He didn't mean to fall into a deep sleep. But he did. It was the worst mistake of his life. 

They found the child wedged between the wall and the bed.

The funeral was a blur. The following days were hell on earth. She and her husband hollered at one another. She placed blame. He said hurtful things.

Sometimes, good people act ugly.

They separated. He moved into his brother’s. She moved back to Virginia. They put their house up for sale.

The house sat vacant for a year, and they didn’t speak for that long. No calls, no emails. Silence.

Until a realtor called to say they'd received an offer.

They arrived at the vacant home together one evening to sign papers. It was just him. Just her. They'd changed. She’d cut

her hair. He’d lost weight. They almost didn’t recognize each other.

A body can change a lot in a year.

They embraced. They kissed. They apologized. They talked about their late child.

They remembered.

They cried. They laid together on the living-room floor and spent the night in one another's arms. No words. Just quiet.

The next morning, they woke with stiff backs and crusty eyes. Her face was serious.

“What is it?” he said.

Her first words were: “I had this dream.”

She spoke of a girl in her dream, with blonde hair, blue eyes, running through an open field, chasing other children. The little girl ran with arms outstretched, smiling, laughing.

The child in the dream laughed, then collapsed to lie down. She stared at a sky above her and sang in a childlike hum.

And…

Daddy used bolt cutters to cut the chain on a livestock gate. We rode in the bed of his truck, speeding across a bumpy field.

In the pickup-bed: Daddy’s friends Willie, Stuart, and me.

“This is a bad idea,” said Willie, trying not to choke on his cigarette. “Old man Luke’s liable to shoot us for stealing.”

The truck came to a stop. It was night. We could see our breath. We looked across acres of pine trees which grew in a field of weeds.

Daddy aimed headlights at trees. In a few minutes, chainsaws screamed, men laughed. They shaped balsam firs with trimmers, and cut down nearly forty-five.

They stacked them on a flatbed in a hurry.

The next night, Daddy and I sat in the front seat, wearing Santa caps, heater blaring. Bing Crosby never sounded so good.

He handed me a clipboard. “You’re Santa’s Little Navigator tonight.” he said. “Read me them addresses.”

I read, pointing a flashlight at a roadmap. And we delivered balsam firs to every dilapidated home, ratty apartment, rusty camper, and aluminum single-wide in

the county.

We were greeted at front doors by men in work boots, women in waitress uniforms, and their giddy children. Daddy would set trees in dens, and give them free smiles.

Most people thanked him until they wore out their voices. Some cried.

Daddy would say, “Don’t thank me, thank the church.”

But the church had nothing to do with it—not officially.

The following Sunday at church, Daddy was a door-greeter. I stood beside him, shaking hands, passing bulletins.

With each handshake, Daddy said, “Care to donate to needy kids who can’t afford trees?”

People handed over bills. Tens, twenties, even a few hundreds.

After service, Daddy drove a maze of dirt roads while the sun lowered over the world. We stopped at a faded house in an overgrown field. Daddy rapped on the door.

An old man…

He’s single father. A widower, to be exact. But that’s not the story here.

He waits tables for a living. And on his off-days, he works at another restaurant.

Sometimes, he works with his brother’s power-washing business for extra cash. He does handyman work, and installs home sound systems. He is a busy man.

He does it for his kids.

The money goes out the window as fast as it comes. And he’s away a lot.

His children are used to fending for themselves. They’re used to preparing their own suppers, watching television alone, and tucking themselves in.

But not since she started coming around.

Let me back up.

Nine months ago, he met her. She’s a receptionist at a doctor’s office. She was at his restaurant for her coworker’s birthday party.

He saw her and couldn’t stop looking at her.

By the end of the night, his friends in the kitchen knew he was smitten. They teased him. “Go talk to her,” they said, shoving him.

But, confidence doesn’t exactly grow on trees, and our Lone Ranger has been out of the saddle since high school.

He didn’t

know how to approach her. He was—according to his coworkers—a big, fat, hairy chicken. So, without his permission, one of the waitresses spoke for him.

“See that guy over there?” the waitress whispered into the receptionist’s ear. “He’s the best guy you’ll ever meet. He likes you, but he’s too scaredy-cat to talk to you.”

Ouch, Kemosabe.

But that’s how it started.

A little bout her: she was married once. The doctor told her she couldn’t have kids. It broke her heart, all she’s ever wanted were children.

She likes long walks on the beach, Mexican food, Trisha Yearwood albums, chocolate ice cream, and any book that wasn’t written by Danielle Steel.

They went on a first date. It lasted for sixteen hours. But they darkened no bedrooms, rustled no sheets.…

It’s a little early for a Christmas party. But who’s counting. We’re in my sister’s backyard. There are twinkling lights hanging over a fenced area. The whole family is here.

My sister’s neighbor is performing minor surgery on his Harley. It’s loud.

My mother is drinking a beer. I am, too. We are humble, working-class people. If we’re going to have a Christmas party with loud Harleys, by God, we might as well have cheap beer, too.

There is a kid running around. A girl. She is my alleged niece.

She calls me “Uncle Sean.”

My sister talks to the girl in a high-pitched voice. “Tell your Uncle Sean you love him.”

The kid remarks, “UNKO SUH WIGBSKGH SWERW
RRRRRRR HJSKDJFH.”

Close enough.

Now the kid is on my lap. Her diaper is wet, she has green snot running from her nose, and she smells like a pot of collards.

I could just eat her all up.

She looks like her mother did at this age. She has the same eyes. Same personality. It’s a get-your-hands-off-me-I-can-do-it-myself-thank-you-very-much personality.

And I’m going back in time. Decades back.

If I close my eyes, I see my baby

sister on her rump in a big hayfield. She’s five. She’s got a dog with her. An outdoor dog, with ticks and fleas.

She’s staring into space. It’s cold. She’s got yellow snot on her upper lip.

“Is Daddy really dead?” she says.

Her face is big. Her cheeks are clammy. My father’s untimely end is fresh on her mind.

“You’re gonna catch a cold,” I say. “Let’s go inside.”

“Why would Daddy kill his own self?”

“You’re gonna get fleas if you—”

“What if YOU die next? What if MAMA dies?”

And the tears come. They’re hot tears. I remember this because they were all over my chest and shoulder.

“Nobody’s gonna die,” I tell her.

“I’m scared. What’s gonna happen to us?”

“I…

The parking lot at Target. He has no legs below the knees. His upper body is well-developed. He has a large handlebar mustache. Tattoos.

A young girl helps him out of a truck. She is eighteen at the most. Maybe nineteen.

She lifts him from the driver’s seat into a wheelchair. She is a tall girl, strapping, broad shoulders. Jeans and boots.

I can see them across the parking lot.

And even though it’s none of my business, I offer to help the girl. She too busy holding him in her arms to answer.

So he answers for her. “Thanks, boss, but my daughter’s got it. She does it all the time.”

He’s not fooling. She is stronger than a new box of Borax.

I watch her place him into his wheelchair, then buckle him in. He kisses her cheek. And away they roll into Target.

I see them in the store, too. He wheels through the aisles, laughing with the girl. There’s a look fathers give daughters. And there's a look daughters give fathers. I can spot a daddy’s-girl ten miles away.

They must be Christmas shopping

because every few words, he says, “You think Mama will like that one?”

They are in the technology section. He’s parked before a TV that’s large enough to require a movie ticket to look at. She’s standing beside him. She towers over him by at least three feet.

The screen plays “It’s a Wonderful Life.”

And I love this movie.

In fact, I’ve seen it so many times I could quote the dialogue with my hands tied behind my back and eyes closed—hanging upside down. Backwards. In the dark.

In Español.

The scene they’re watching:

George Bailey is a boy, working the soda counter in the drugstore. Young Mary is at the bar.

Mary leans forward to say to George, “Is THIS the ear you can’t hear on?”

George doesn’t answer.

So…

There she is. Yeah, it’s definitely her.

I haven’t seen her in years. She’s standing in the produce aisle of the supermarket, scooping mixed walnuts and pecans into a bag.

Nat King Cole Christmas music plays overhead. It smells like Santa Claus’ aftershave in this grocery store.

She couldn’t possibly remember me. I was the quiet man in the rear of her speech class. I was one of her adult community-college students who lurked in the back rows.

Like most in her class, I was petrified of public speaking. So were my peers.

My first speech was one I’d like to forget. I delivered a torturous five-minute monologue on the proper way to prepare Pop Tarts.

When I finished, she gave a smile that seemed to say, “I hate my life.”

I was an adult male with two jobs, a wife, and a back surgery. I tried my best in her class. And she rewarded me for it.

I’ll never forget her for that.

My classmate, Gary, was a lot like me. He worked menial jobs, he had daughters, bills. We complained

in the breezeway before classes together.

Gary had a stutter—a crippling condition that embarrassed him. Simple conversation was difficult, sometimes almost impossible. Finishing a sentence could take ten minutes.

And when she paired students for final projects, she placed us together.

We worked on our speeches one evening at a sports bar. We set up shop in a booth on a Saturday night and watched the Alabama-Georgia game while scribbling speech notes on paper.

Gary purposed we make our speeches on the crisis facing modern paternity in a national economic holocaust.

“Yawn,” said I. “Let’s speak about baseball, America’s greatest pastime, or stock-car racing, or the ever-elusive, yet highly-documented and indisputably-real Bigfoot.”

We finally agreed on writing about our parents. I don’t remember much else that night, except that our notebooks had beer-stains.

And: Alabama lost to Georgia,…

His mother died when he was six. His childhood was a lonely one. He’d been raised by his father—a man who worked too much.

No brothers. No sisters. He was a quiet child. So quiet, kids at school wondered if he even existed.

He got older and became a quiet fourteen-year-old. He had a hard time making friends. Most nights you could find him alone at home after school, eating fast food before a glowing TV screen.

She was his neighbor. She was old and feeble, with an oxygen machine. She lived in an ancient home and she stayed inside it.

She was not friendly. In fact, she was downright hateful. Most people avoided her. Especially kids. She would chew up children and spit them out.

She spent her days stuck in an easy chair, staring at windows, watching people walk the sidewalk.

One day, she and the boy started to talk.

She was on her back porch, with her nurse when she saw him pass her.

"Get up here,” she said to him, puffing a cigarette.

“Introduce yourself to me.”

And, even though nobody saw it coming, their friendship blossomed. He opened like a camellia. He talked to her about everything. He spoke about life, about day-to-day things, and what he'd seen in the news.

They became fast friends. They stayed that way through the years.

Her lawn was overgrown; he’d cut it. The siding on her home was rotting; he’d repair it. She taught him to love books. He taught her to be nice.

By his early twenties, he was helping care for her. He called to check on her often. He grocery shopped. He brought in the mail. He carried her to appointments.

And each year for Christmas, he bought her a balsam fir. A live one. He’d place it in her living room, front and center, decorated.

Her face would grow fifty-years younger when she saw…