The blur of the twinkling white lights rushed past me as I sprinted down the busy Manhattan streets, occasionally rubbing my hands together for warmth. My puffy marshmallow of a jacket bounced gently with every step, as if it was keeping the beat of my run. As I let myself fall into tune with my jacket’s subtle beats, my mind began to wander. The holidays had always been magical to me since I was a little girl, and as I scanned the store windows around me filled with teddy bears and toy trucks, I became that little girl once again.
All of a sudden, my beloved New York City unfolded around me to reveal a sight even more familiar to me: my childhood bedroom. I blinked to focus my eyes and my mind on the pale pink walls and fluffy white bed, and suddenly I was curled up inside them. Hearing my dad call out to me, I raced down the stairs as the firecracker of a six year old I once was. Not surprisingly, a giant Christmas tree was tucked into the corner of my living room, adorned with blinding lights and glistening ornaments of every size from my mother’s lifelong collection. I glanced at it and smiled proudly, remembering how honored I was to be the youngest member of my family and hold the responsibility of putting the golden star on the highest point of the tree. As my eyes skimmed the windowsill, I found my father’s menorah fully lit and gleaming. It had been passed down from generation to generation, and he assured me every year that it would one day be mine, although I did not think about it much. My eyes fluttered back to the tree where gifts wrapped in red and green rested underneath peacefully. I ran to the presents, turning each one over in my hunt for the ones that were mine. Finally, I found a gift with the name “Tess” emblazoned on its side. I hungrily ripped it open and hugged the massive teddy bear that was inside. For four years after that day, Cocoa the Bear was my world and traveled everywhere I could take him. He was the first present that I remember receiving to this day and was the ultimate reminder of the holiday spirit for my whole childhood.
Shaking myself out of the daze of this memory, I continued to jog. Smiling about the memory of my favorite stuffed animal, I passed another store window, this one displaying various brands of baby dolls. I never played with dolls much as a kid, but I will always remember the first holiday season with a baby in my house.
At eight years old, I was still in my baby pink room with soft white bedding. I did not even have to wait for my father’s announcement before I flew down the stairs and found my favorite sight in the world: a giant Christmas tree fully stocked with gifts. After giving the glistening menorah a half-hearted glance, I raced over to my presents and began to tear off the wrapping paper, but felt a small burst of sadness. Looking up at the lovely tree, I saw the famous golden star that my mother had had for ages sitting on the top of the branches. That year, Mom and Dad lifted baby Toby towards the sky to place the star on the tree, even though I insisted that he could not even hold it by himself. It was the first time that I did not get to be the baby, the only one receiving my parents’ attention. I had looked forward to my dad picking me up and letting me sit on his shoulders to place the star, but that was not my responsibility anymore. I felt worthless in this little family and stormed upstairs, trailing tissue paper and ribbons behind me.
Lost in my own home, I scrambled to find my bed and threw the covers over my head. Seconds later, I heard footsteps pounding up the polished wooden stairs and moving towards my room.
“Tess?” my father asked. He peeked around my doorframe and slowly began to walk inside.
“Leave me alone!” I demanded, readjusting the covers to make sure he could not see me.
“Hey, I know you’re upset about the star...”
“How did you know that?” I asked in amazement.
“Well, I know it’s been a big change for you to have Toby around, and you haven’t stopped staring at the star all morning.”
“Really?” I asked. At my young age, I genuinely had not noticed how obvious I had been making my petty sadness.
“Yes, your eyes have been glued to it, but that doesn’t matter. Tess, you know you’re not the baby anymore, right?” At this point, I began to slide out of the covers to face my father. I nodded. “You see, there are different kinds of traditions in this house. We have the baby traditions and the big kid traditions. Putting the star on the top of the tree is a baby tradition. The youngest person in our family does that, and right now, that’s Toby, but there are special big kid traditions, too.”
“Like what?” I asked. Nothing could possibly be as impressive as putting the star on the stop of the tree.
“Like who bakes cookies with Mom all day on Christmas Eve?”
“I do.”
“And who gets to write their own name on the cards we send to Grandma and Grandpa?”
“Well, me.”
“Who gets to keep the special menorah when they’re all grown up?”
“I get it.” I did “get” it. I understood what he was trying to say, but I also eventually received that menorah. That measly piece of metal seemed completely insignificant at the time, but now it is my Cocoa the Bear, my favorite gift of all time.
Reminiscing on this memory of my dad, I realized exactly what he was trying to do, not just that day, but every day; he did everything he could to make sure I felt loved, supported, and included in my little family. The warmth and love of this memory shocked me back into reality during the final leg of my run and then quickly into a more recent time of my life.
Monitors buzzed, people ran, gurneys rolled, and tears plopped onto the ground like rain drops. Marilyn Brighton Hospital was a chaotic emotional battlefield, and I was lost in it. I could not believe that at twenty-six years old, I was here, and this was happening to me. I ran to room 509, breathing heavily. I had not slept through the night in nearly two months and could collapse at any second, but at least I was in a hospital that could help me if I did. Despite my weariness, I sprinted up two flights of stairs, not wanting to waste any time waiting for elevators. I finally found myself in room 509, the air stale and stuffy. In the monotonous white bed with off white sheets, my father slept peacefully. This was the last bed he would ever sleep in, the last room he would ever see, and the last time he would ever talk to his oldest daughter.
The beautiful words he said to me I will keep between the two of us for the rest of my life, and as my father’s eyes began to flutter at 4:17 that afternoon, he smiled at me.
Focusing back on my run, I realized that I was almost at my apartment. I greeted the doorman, sprinted up the stairs, and rushed to Apartment 509. After flinging the door open, I reached into one of my cabinets and pulled out a measly little piece of metal that suddenly meant the world to me. I lit the first candle and put it on my windowsill for the whole city to see. Giving that menorah the full attention it deserved, I smiled. The holidays were still my favorite time of year, spent the same way they always were: with my amazing father by my side.