The
Little Angel
Mother said that I smiled and laughed
when she held me up to see the little angel hung high in the tree. Since I was
only nine months old at the time I don’t actually remember this, but I do know
that I’ve loved the ornament for as long as I can remember. Seeing her every
year always brings, if not laughter, at least a smile to my face. Too fragile to hang now, she often rests in a place of honor on my mantel.
We’ve spent a lot of
years together, 70 to be exact. Even though she remains in the form of a baby
wrapped in discolored swaddling clothes, like I, she has begun to show her age.
Her embossed paper wings aren’t as white as they once were, and the silver foil
backing on them has peeled a bit around the edges. The points of her halo are also
a little worse for wear. There are a few small cracks and even a small piece
missing in the composite material of her face.
Unlike hers, my hair is
no longer blonde like it was when I was a very young child. Yet in the
important things, this little angel and I are still a lot alike. Her eyes are wide with wonder, and she still
smiles sweetly in anticipation of the joys of Christmas. May it always be so
for me as well.
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