By Lynn M. Rice
The angel ornament—the one made of thin green glass—hung just out of reach near the peak of Grandma’s fresh, poky Christmas tree.
At age four, Gram let me touch the red velvet heart with the hand-tatted lace and told me of her Great-Great-Grandma Catherine’s nimble, potato-picking fingers.
At age six, she lowered a cross-stitched barn into my anxious hands and recalled her Great-Grandma Margaret’s farmhouse and the blizzard of 1940.
At age eight, I need to touch the green glass angel dangling from the now-artificial branch. It slips; shatters.
And she’s no longer here to tell me its story.
Such a story used to evoke such strong emotions. So good!