This is a story I just finished for AP English. The prompt was for it to just be a narrative essay about a Christmas memory, and as you can see, I took many liberties...well, for lack of a better introduction, here it is:
A Ghost Sleeps with the Shell of Winter
I have never seen a Christmas ghost, not even after he was born. December 14, 1986, Sunday, 5:40.57 p.m., the doctor held my newborn, Jeremy or Stacy, out to me. Jeremy. He wept twice, and then fell into a quiet slumber as I carefully tucked him in my arms. I whispered my name, Saundra, to him and told him, This is your place in the world, Jeremy, where you can be safe. With closed eyes, he left my arms. Was he breathing? I cant remember. The doctors scurried away with him wrapped in towels, and my husband squeezed my hand and dropped his head to my chest as if waiting for my heart to thump against his ear. When I felt it beat, he wrapped his arms around me and cried against my cheek.
A Ghost Sleeps with the Shell of Winter
I have never seen a Christmas ghost, not even after he was born. December 14, 1986, Sunday, 5:40.57 p.m., the doctor held my newborn, Jeremy or Stacy, out to me. Jeremy. He wept twice, and then fell into a quiet slumber as I carefully tucked him in my arms. I whispered my name, Saundra, to him and told him, This is your place in the world, Jeremy, where you can be safe. With closed eyes, he left my arms. Was he breathing? I cant remember. The doctors scurried away with him wrapped in towels, and my husband squeezed my hand and dropped his head to my chest as if waiting for my heart to thump against his ear. When I felt it beat, he wrapped his arms around me and cried against my cheek.
We drove home without our baby. The empty carriage in the backseat rumbled with a dull echo of hollow plastic. I couldnt bring myself to cry. When we got home, Jeremy would be in his room, the room we decided to leave white because we couldnt decide on a color, asleep in his cradle. Without looking at my husband, I asked, Gary
is he dead? I shifted my eyes toward him and saw him nod, his damp face gleaming in the sun. I placed my hand on his, tense around the steering wheel, and he held it out. I dropped my head into it, draining my eyes, and pressed it against my mouth, screaming.
December 19, the funeral. The burial of an infant too vulnerable for life. I never wanted the funeral. I never cared to know he was dead. The preacher said a few words about Jeremy, whom he only knew as deceased, and a few words about God, whom I only knew as a corpse. As the casket closed, I saw my child and the memories I could only imagine: rocking him to sleep, waking up to his cries, attaching drawings he made of me to the refrigerator, grounding him for breaking the picture frame with his fifth grade photograph, dealing with his rebellion as a teenager, filming his walk at graduation, helping with his wedding, and watching his children while he treats his wife to a gourmet dinner. Reality did not let me dream for long, however, as my child was lowered into his grave.
Jeremys presents remained under the tree until after his funeral. I unwrapped each one, a stuffed elephant, a purple, quilted blanket, baby shoes and baby clothes, a book about a squirrel who tries to find the perfect acorn before winter, and a dome shaped activity gym, and leaned it against the wall in his room. As I sat the elephant against the wall, I felt Garys hand on my shoulder. For when he returns, I said. He wrapped me in his arms, kissed me, and whispered, I love you, as I cried into the sleeve of his shirt.
On Christmas, I stayed in bed with my husband. We received gifts from family and friends in the mail, along with Hallmark cards wishing us the merriest of holidays in our situation. We held each other as we watched, from the window behind our bed, the snow melt from the trees and descend in droplets to the ground. Four weeks later, I went to the doctor for stomach pains and discovered I was pregnant.
