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Our Christmas Masterpiece

"Custody shall be granted," were the only words that penetrated my mind, on that frigid December morning. The year was 1993; it was only a week away from my fifteenth birthday and my life that had hung in limbo for so long, had finally been decided for me. Although my sister Melissa was only five years older than myself, the judge deemed her suitable and granted her permanent custody of me.

Days had passed and we were finally at the tail end of a three-day snowstorm, which had left us in a constant rotation of shoveling and struggling to get warm. The lingering, feathery flakes were about the size of half dollars, dancing in slow-motion, as they waltzed their way to the ground. Fernlike stellar dendrites are the most magnificent snow crystals, attaching themselves to anything and everything, that lie in their path. The kind of snowflakes that hit a frozen window pane and for those few seconds before they melt, you are in total awe of the perfection of symmetry, surrounding their structure.

With only a week left until Christmas, all of our usual holiday rituals had already been broken. Lacking the spirit of festivity, we neglected to decorate for the season, as we once had eagerly looked forward to. In the attic, the delicate ornaments and manger lay untouched, still wrapped in tissue paper from the year before.

I was upstairs in my room, killing time, when Melissa called up to me, "Hey Jennie do you want to get a tree this year?" After a long silence, I walked to the top landing and looked down over the balcony. Our eyes met and exchanged a similar glimmer, "It wouldn't be Christmas without a tree," I said as I enthusiastically ran down the stairs. Money was very tight; my sister supported us by baking every morning for Gloria's Farm Market and had a full-time job during the day at the Milford Citizen Newspaper, as a graphic artist. I was too young to work legally, so I babysat all of the neighborhood kids for money. Between the two of us we had managed to come up with almost $25.00 for the tree fund.

It was late in the afternoon, as we ventured out into the cold; the sun had already started its slow descent west. I was the first one out the door, feeling guilty for imprinting my size eight footprints into the glittering, virgin snow. I hopped into my sister's red Honda Accord and scanned through the FM radio stations, frantically searching for some Christmas music to put us in a jovial mood. We decided to remain faithful patrons, returning

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