Jason’s gaze swept the room, before heading into the living room area. “You’re right. It’s totally different. But the open concept’s modern and nice. I think Mom would have loved it.”
“Yeah, she would have.”
They moved through the house together, Jason commenting on changes and reminiscing about old times. When they reached their old bedroom, Jason stood in the doorway for a long moment. “If these walls could talk, right?”
“Yeah. Lots of memories in every nook and cranny of this house.”
“Has it made you miss her all over again?” Jason asked.
“I always miss Mom, but yeah, it’s bringing up a lot of feelings. Ones I tried to run from.”
“No such luck there,” Jason said, chuckling. “I know all about it.”
“Uncle Walter brought over a bunch of Christmas stuff Aunt Grace saved for us. I haven’t looked at it yet. I’m not sure I can handle it.”
“Let’s crack a few beers and do it together,” Jason said.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
Roan grabbed two beers from the fridge while Jason popped the plastic lid off the storage bin in the living room. They sat on the floor like kids about to open presents on Christmas morning.
Ready?” Jason asked
“Rip off the bandage.”
“Okay, let’s do it.” Jason pushed aside a layer of tissue paper, under which were carefully wrapped ornaments.
The first was a popsicle stick frame with a photo of them from first grade, gap-toothed and grinning.
“What’s wrong with our hair?” Jason asked.
“Mom always cut it too short, and then we couldn’t get it to lay flat.”
“She was good at a lot of things, but cutting hair wasn’t one of them.” Jason set it aside and pulled out another. This one was made of salt dough, two small handprints pressed side by side with “Roan & Jason, age 5” written on the back in their mother’s handwriting.
“I remember making these,” Jason said. “It was at Aunt Grace’s house.”
“I have no memory of that.” Like so much from his childhood, Roan had shoved it aside, hoping for the ache in his heart to lessen. It never really worked.
They went through more ornaments. There were construction paper angels, a ceramic baseball with “1st Place Little League” painted on it, a theatre mask Jason had made in high school.
Then Jason pulled out their two red felt stockings, with their names embroidered across the top in their mother’s careful stitching. “Roan” in green thread. “Jason” in gold.
“These bring back some memories,” Jason said. “And, man, all this time in Aunt Grace’s attic feels like a betrayal to Mom.”
“Yeah.” Roan reached for his stocking, running his fingers over the letters. How many Christmas Eves had she filled these? How many mornings had they dumped them out on the floor, exclaiming over candy and small toys and whatever else she’d managed to afford? “This is hard.” Roan pressed the heels of his hands against his closed eyelids.
“It’s best we face it all, though,” Jason said.
They sat there for a moment, each holding their stocking. Outside, the sun was setting and fat flakes drifted lazily from the sky. The clock on the mantel ticked away.
Jason set his stocking aside and reached back into the box. He pulled out a wooden nutcracker, a set of vintage glass icicles still in their original package, and three snow globes wrapped individually in bubble wrap.
“I used to tease her about these, but they’re actually really cool,” Roan said, taking one with a Victorian village scene inside.
Jason picked up the one with a farmhouse, shaking it to make the glitter dance. “This one was her favorite. She said the house looked like ours.”
“I remember,” Roan said.
