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“Good morning, Amanda,” I say as I wake up on the opposite side of the bed from where she always lies. “It’s Christmas, isn’t that nice?”
I get no response from her but no matter, she’s probably still asleep. I walk to the kitchen to make us a hot beverage each. I like to make hot cocoa for special occasions, but I know she prefers tea, regardless of the day. Still, I want today to feel a bit festive, so I portion out some peppermint leaves to add to her tea. With two piping hot cups on the table, I sit down to read the paper. This is one of the traditions I missed most when I was at sea. Neither Amanda nor I was ever a morning person, so we would have a mellow Christmas morning, me reading the paper, her crocheting something, and our celebration would happen later in the evening, over a nice supper, opening presents by the fire.
Wait a minute.
I forgot about a gift! I was going to whittle something for her. I took up the hobby whilst at sea, initially as a way to pass time, but I also would whittle a figure of each man that passed away so we could still bring home a piece of them to their loved ones when we returned. What with all fifty-three other crewmates dying, my skills have improved immensely. But what could be good enough for Amanda? What could I possibly give her that would show how much she means to me? Perhaps I’ll take a walk to clear my mind, and come up with some ideas.
I leave her cup of tea on the table for her along with a scrawled note saying I’ll just be out for a bit, but I promise to return by dinner. I put on the scarf, hat, and gloves she crocheted for me as well as my warmest winter coat and step out into the streets. It’s cold but nothing like the bone-chilling weather at sea. Some nights we all would huddle into one room for the night, wrapped in blankets, and tell stories to keep our minds occupied on something other than frostbite. What about a carving of a snowflake? But the fractals could break so easily, and I wouldn’t want her to be scared to display it. Best to keep thinking.
I pass by a home where through the frosty window I see a family gathered around their radio. It’s still too early for the queen’s speech, but I suppose it’s not the only show on today. Someday Amanda and I will have a family, too, and we’ll be able to have a tradition like that. Perhaps that’s what I could make! A mobile for a baby’s crib, or a box for mementos of its first year of life. Although, that wouldn’t really be a present for Amanda, I suppose. She deserves something nice just for herself. There will be plenty of time for me to craft things for our future children during the rest of the year.
Why is this so difficult for me? I’ve known and loved this woman for so long, but perhaps that’s what makes it so hard. It just has to be the perfect thing, like she is the perfect woman. I imagine right now she’s finished her morning tea and has moved onto singing carols while preparing supper. Her mother will come over soon to help, and her father will be fiddling with the radio and smoking a pipe.
I pass the town square with its Christmas tree adorned with tinsel and hundreds of ornaments, one from each family in town. Our ornament is always something Amanda crochets with thin thread and the smallest hook she owns, starched and pressed until it’s stiffer than a board. I don’t see it upon a quick look, but I know it’s there, probably tucked away behind the garlands and tinsel. It’s always so delicate and well-made, but she has a tendency to complain about the way the metal hook feels in her hand. That’s it! I can make a set of wooden crochet hooks for her! I can make one in every size she could possibly need, and I can carve the bottom into the perfect shape for her lovely hands to hold.
I dash home and go straight to the shed where my woodworking supplies are, not even bothering to say hello to the in-laws. They’ll be fine without me for a bit. I spend the rest of the afternoon in my workshop, precisely whittling ten different hooks, all customized just for her. I know the exact shape of her hand, after all, it is my favorite thing to hold. By the time I finish wrapping them up in old newspaper, it’s already dark.
I hastily put my coat back on, shoving the parcel into the pocket, and make my way back to the house. The lights are already off. They must have set the table already with the candles. I step inside and feel the cold, still air against my cheeks. The fireplace hasn’t been lit, and the window I opened this morning hasn’t been closed. I walk into the kitchen.
I am met with a cup of cold peppermint tea.