Authors Note: This is another fictional piece that I wrote for my creative writing class. Please be warned, its a bit of a sad tale. But its what came out when I started to write.
A small red basket, about the size of a first grader’s shoe, had been pushed far under the tree. It had been there for weeks and no one seemed to have noticed it except for Roger. It was made of wicker and had been painted carefully by Roger, who was seven years old, as a present for his Dad.
Roger had painted the basket at school the week before Christmas during art class. His teacher, Mrs. Bernard, patted him on the head and told him how much his father would love it. And when Mr. Potts, the fifth grade science teacher, popped in the room to wish everyone a Happy Holidays, he smiled at Roger and told him it was the best basket he had ever seen.
Roger planned to give the basket to Dad on Friday - Christmas Eve, before they left for the hockey game together. So he hid it under the tree, near the base where it would be safe.
It wasn’t a real tree, like the one Cole’s family had in their living room. But it looked real to Roger. It had bright lights of red, yellow and green that blinked like crazy and hundreds of glass ornaments and an angel at the top.
Roger, Dad and Mom had decorated it together. And then Mom had made hot coco with marshmallows which they drank together by the fireplace before they went to bed.
Roger felt the prickly branches that scraped his back and neck as he crawled deeper into the branches to hide his treasure. The tree was real enough for him.
As he lay on his belly and admired the brown living room carpet and the underside of the tree, Roger imagined himself presenting the basket to Dad, along with the note inside that said “To the Best Dad Ever! I love you, Roger.” He could almost see his Dad’s broad smile and hear his cheerful laugh as he thanked Roger and hugged him.
Then Roger would say “This is the best Christmas ever” and everyone would laugh because Roger said that every year. And maybe Dad would take the basket to his office and put it on his desk where everyone could see it. And then Dad would say “This was the best Christmas ever.”
But it didn’t happen that way. There was no hockey game. There was no Christmas Eve. The gifts were never exchanged. And Roger never had a chance to see his Dad read the note and hug him close and say “I love you too.” And it wasn’t the best Christmas ever. Because, in all the confusion, the holidays had been forgotten.
First there was the phone call from Dad’s office and the sound of Mom gasping, dropping the phone on the floor and sobbing uncontrollably. Roger was whisked off to the neighbor’s house while Mom rushed over to the hospital.
It was hours before Mom came back and her face and eyes were puffy and red and she couldn’t talk. Aunt Carol, who had come with Mom from the hospital, had to help Roger brush his teeth and say his prayers.
Then there was the funeral to plan. And relatives dropping by with pans of lasagna and baskets of muffins. And so many people hugging Roger and telling him how sad they all felt and that if Roger needed anything to let them know. But Roger didn’t need anything, except for the one thing he couldn’t have.
Then there was a cold December morning when Roger wore his best white shirt, his brown pants and his shiny black shoes. He watched Uncle Rob and some other men carry the cold black coffin across the wet grass and place it on the rack over the gaping hole.
Roger held Mom’s hand and looked at the ground. He hoped no one noticed that his socks didn’t match. Mom hadn’t done the laundry all week and Roger didn’t want to bother her. So he was wearing one white sock and one black one because that was all he could find.
The wind was blowing and a cold misty rain had started to fall. But Roger had left his gloves in the big black car that was parked just outside the fence and his fingers were cold. Mom's hands, which were usually warm, were cold too.
The car wasn’t Dad's. Or Mom’s. A big white haired man with somber eyes and a long dark coat had brought it to their house and then driven them to the church. Roger was afraid to ask the man if he could go and get his gloves because the man seemed to be in charge and was very busy making arrangements.
And now it was the second week in January and Santa had somehow missed their house and Mom still cried every morning. And Aunt Carol had moved into the guest room so she could fix Roger’s breakfast and help him get dressed for school.
And the Christmas decorations were still up. And so was the tree. Even though Valentine's Day was right around the corner.
And the little red basket under the tree had been forgotten by everyone except Roger who wondered when he would be able to give it to Dad.
A small red basket, about the size of a first grader’s shoe, had been pushed far under the tree. It had been there for weeks and no one seemed to have noticed it except for Roger. It was made of wicker and had been painted carefully by Roger, who was seven years old, as a present for his Dad.
Roger had painted the basket at school the week before Christmas during art class. His teacher, Mrs. Bernard, patted him on the head and told him how much his father would love it. And when Mr. Potts, the fifth grade science teacher, popped in the room to wish everyone a Happy Holidays, he smiled at Roger and told him it was the best basket he had ever seen.
Roger planned to give the basket to Dad on Friday - Christmas Eve, before they left for the hockey game together. So he hid it under the tree, near the base where it would be safe.
It wasn’t a real tree, like the one Cole’s family had in their living room. But it looked real to Roger. It had bright lights of red, yellow and green that blinked like crazy and hundreds of glass ornaments and an angel at the top.
Roger, Dad and Mom had decorated it together. And then Mom had made hot coco with marshmallows which they drank together by the fireplace before they went to bed.
Roger felt the prickly branches that scraped his back and neck as he crawled deeper into the branches to hide his treasure. The tree was real enough for him.
As he lay on his belly and admired the brown living room carpet and the underside of the tree, Roger imagined himself presenting the basket to Dad, along with the note inside that said “To the Best Dad Ever! I love you, Roger.” He could almost see his Dad’s broad smile and hear his cheerful laugh as he thanked Roger and hugged him.
Then Roger would say “This is the best Christmas ever” and everyone would laugh because Roger said that every year. And maybe Dad would take the basket to his office and put it on his desk where everyone could see it. And then Dad would say “This was the best Christmas ever.”
But it didn’t happen that way. There was no hockey game. There was no Christmas Eve. The gifts were never exchanged. And Roger never had a chance to see his Dad read the note and hug him close and say “I love you too.” And it wasn’t the best Christmas ever. Because, in all the confusion, the holidays had been forgotten.
First there was the phone call from Dad’s office and the sound of Mom gasping, dropping the phone on the floor and sobbing uncontrollably. Roger was whisked off to the neighbor’s house while Mom rushed over to the hospital.
It was hours before Mom came back and her face and eyes were puffy and red and she couldn’t talk. Aunt Carol, who had come with Mom from the hospital, had to help Roger brush his teeth and say his prayers.
Then there was the funeral to plan. And relatives dropping by with pans of lasagna and baskets of muffins. And so many people hugging Roger and telling him how sad they all felt and that if Roger needed anything to let them know. But Roger didn’t need anything, except for the one thing he couldn’t have.
Then there was a cold December morning when Roger wore his best white shirt, his brown pants and his shiny black shoes. He watched Uncle Rob and some other men carry the cold black coffin across the wet grass and place it on the rack over the gaping hole.
Roger held Mom’s hand and looked at the ground. He hoped no one noticed that his socks didn’t match. Mom hadn’t done the laundry all week and Roger didn’t want to bother her. So he was wearing one white sock and one black one because that was all he could find.
The wind was blowing and a cold misty rain had started to fall. But Roger had left his gloves in the big black car that was parked just outside the fence and his fingers were cold. Mom's hands, which were usually warm, were cold too.
The car wasn’t Dad's. Or Mom’s. A big white haired man with somber eyes and a long dark coat had brought it to their house and then driven them to the church. Roger was afraid to ask the man if he could go and get his gloves because the man seemed to be in charge and was very busy making arrangements.
And now it was the second week in January and Santa had somehow missed their house and Mom still cried every morning. And Aunt Carol had moved into the guest room so she could fix Roger’s breakfast and help him get dressed for school.
And the Christmas decorations were still up. And so was the tree. Even though Valentine's Day was right around the corner.
And the little red basket under the tree had been forgotten by everyone except Roger who wondered when he would be able to give it to Dad.
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