Ellen switched on the light in the cluttered garage and sighed. She had put this off as long as possible but with the house being listed in a week there was no more time. Maybe she could just load all the boxes and junk without opening them, haul them to the dump, be done.
She ran her hand over the dusty top of the nearest flimsy carton, lifting the well-wrinkled flap in spite of herself. A flash of shiny red caught her attention, and carefully she unwrapped the tiny gnome from his torn tissue. A ragged smile played across her face as she rubbed the little fellow’s flowing beard.
The gnome had perched on the thick oak branch over the front walk every Christmas for as long as Ellen could remember. Once, when Ellen was about four, she had asked why, and Mom had told her he was the Christmas guardian. Nothing could steal the spirit of Christmas love as long as he watched over them.
Only when Ellen and her brothers had grown and gone did she ask Mom why the gnome still guarded the house. It wasn’t as if any children remained to believe in magic. Her eyes filled with tears remembering the gnome’s real story. Dad had given him to Mom their first Christmas, just days after they became engaged. The tiny presents held something that real packages could not; his vow to never leave her.
Dad had died when Ellen was two, a stupid construction accident. Mom set the gnome in the tree at Christmas, when her grief was deepest, to honor the promise. If she hadn’t died, he would be perched on that branch now, holding Dad’s love for her where she could see it. Ellen carefully closed the box and carried the gnome to the front walk. Dad would have wanted it this way, she thought. When she walked away, the gnome perched cheerfully in the stiff snow on that same old branch.
The Word Worker 