Broken Christmas

This is one of the short stories I've written for my creative writing class this semester. I hope you enjoy it, and I should be posting more stuff soon. 

The sparkling glass ball twinkled in her trembling hand as she situated the ornament on one of the pine’s branches. With a soft sigh, she slowly turned and selected another delicate globe from the velvet-lined box on the hearth next to the flickering and crackling fireplace.  Its brilliant golden glow cast her boney hand in an even paler complexion. She rubbed her wrinkled fingertip against the cool glass of the ball and sighed. He’d given her this one for their thirty-fifth Christmas together, they’d had real tree then. The room had been filled with the sharp scent of pine. She longed for those days again. The days before this fake tree. Before this broken year. She hung the crimson-hued thirty-fifth ornament and stared at it, fighting the lump in her throat. 

Frank Sinatra’s rich voice serenaded her with a holiday song on her ancient record player, almost succeeding in drowning out the sounds of the others in the house. She’d told them to leave her while she placed her treasures on the tree and relived the memories. There were sixty-four fragile bulbs to grace her evergreen. One for each of their years together.

Pausing in her meticulous placement of the precious orbs, she strokes his picture on the mantel. “Merry Christmas, Dave,” she murmured, fighting the throbbing ache in her chest. They’d always adorned the tree together, reliving the highs and lows of each year. Alone now...she could only think of this year’s low.

“Mom.”

She turned to see her daughter had entered the room, holding a small present.

“I found this tucked in the closet. He left it for you.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and she unsteadily lowered herself onto the couch.

Sitting next to her mother, the younger woman placed the gift wrapped in red paper accented with golden trees in the elderly woman’s quivering hands.

Neither moved for awhile, just staring at the familiar-sized box.

Tears began to slip out of the corner of the grieving widow’s eyes. Her sixty-fifth ornament.