Inside, there are red and gold glass balls. Wooden stars. A delicate angel with silver wings.
Holly touches a carved star. “Did Emma make these?”
“Some of them. The wooden ones were her project every fall. She’d sit at the workbench with her carving tools and make two or three new ones. Said the tree needed to grow every year, same as we did.”
“That’s beautiful.”
“Yeah.” I pick up a ruby-red glass ball, turning it so the firelight moves inside. “The glass ornaments belonged to our mom. Emma kept them after she passed. Said memories deserved space, not storage.”
“Your sister sounds wise.”
“She was.”
“Then let’s hang them,” Holly says. “Let her be here with us.”
We spend the next hour stringing lights and hanging ornaments, our fingers brushing as we pass decorations between us. Her shoulder bumps me. I steady her when she reaches high.
“This one…” I hold up a small silver bell. “Emma got it our first Christmas after Mom died. She was sixteen. I was twenty, home on leave. She hung it by the door and said it rang like home. Each jingle was Mom saying hello.”
Holly takes the bell and hangs it near the window. It chimes.
“Hello, Emma.” Holly’s hand finds mine. She squeezes.
I lift a wooden star, the edges smooth from years of handling. “High school woodshop. She made ornaments instead of the assigned bookshelf. Nearly failed. Said she was choosing joy.”
“I would’ve liked her.”
“She would’ve loved you. Would’ve tried to set you up with me in five minutes.”
“Smart woman.”
I hang the star on a center branch. “The smartest.”
I lift a glass icicle. It catches the firelight like a prism, throwing tiny rainbows across Holly’s face. “This was Emma’s first purchase with her own money. She was eight. Saved her allowance for three months.”
Holly turns it in her hands, watching the light dance. “What did she see in it at that age?”
“Magic. She said it looked like captured magic.”
“It does.” Holly hangs it on a branch where it can catch the light.
Then I hold up a tiny wooden sleigh, no bigger than my thumb. The wood is dark with age, and I laugh. “Mom made this the year I was born. Emma used to tease me. Said it was like me, small but determined.”
Holly laughs. “Sounds right. Though you’re not small anymore.”
“Emma said that too.” I hang it low.
Holly touches it with her fingertip, like she’s afraid it might break.
We reach for the next ornament at the same time. Our hands brush. She doesn’t pull away.
Neither do I.
We hang the rest in silence. No more stories needed. Her shoulder is against mine, our breathing matching as we build something new.
“This angel belonged to my mom,” I pull it out of the box and unwrap it. “Emma insisted it go on top every year. Said Mom was watching over us, and the angel made it official.”
I place the angel carefully and then look up. “What do you think?”
