“The Crystal Swan,” a Christmas story by Evena Gottschalk

Many years ago at Christmas, I received a tiny crystal swan, a mirror on which to place it and a hand-drawn card with lovely crayon work, saying, For you, Auntie. The gift came from my best friend’s six-year-old son, Peter.

The sights and smells of that Christmas morning at Ann’s house have been indelibly inscribed in my brain. I remember looking through the window at the trees, the rooftops and the sidewalks brushed with a fresh layer of snow.  Inside, the fireplace crackled, and the smell of freshly baked ham permeated the air.

On Christmas Eve we decorated the tree, baked cookies, drank egg nog. Afterwards, we bundled up and walked through the crunchy snow to attend the Festival of the Nine Lessons and Carols at a nearby church.  We returned home, cold, tired but joyful. Eventually, sleep called and we retired to our rooms.

“Auntie,” Peter whispered. “May I come in? I want to tell you something.” 

“Sure,” I said. Peter came over to my bed.  To have a better view of his round, angelic face, I turned on the bedside light.

“I bought a gift for you Auntie. I chose it myself. Before I could reply, Peter turned around and ran up the hallway to his room. 

After breakfast, we gathered around the tree to exchange gifts.  But Peter pre-empted the ritual of him handing out the Christmas stockings.  Rather he planted himself in front of the tree.  In his outstretched hand, he held a small box topped with an oversized red bow. “Open it, open it,” he said, rushing towards me. “I wrapped it myself.” He leaned on my lap; elbows on chin gazing at me as I lifted a miniature crystal swan out of the box. 

“Auntie, do you like it?”

“Of course, it’s beautiful,” I said.”

 “Auntie, take good care of it, forever and forever.” 

I did.

Peter’s mother and I are first generation Canadians.  Our parents immigrated to Canada to study and never returned. They were not escaping from a life of poverty. Rather they enjoyed the freedom of anonymity, a difficult thing to achieve on a small island. 

Our two families lived in the same neighbourhood, vacationed together. Peter’s mother, and I attended the same university. We considered ourselves sisters, just not bonded by DNA.  She had been my biggest supporter when my husband unexpectedly died.

Peter grew up, went off to university.  I remember the Christmas morning when he presented his fiancée with a pair of crystal lovebirds. How he repeated the exact words when he gave me my crystal swan, but with a twist.  He said, “Take good care of them, because my love for you is forever and forever.” Then he turned to me and asked like he had done so many Christmases before. “Auntie how is my swan doing? Is she safe?” 

“Of course. Auntie loves you and your swan, forever and forever.” 

One summer’s evening I heard a tinkling sound. I ran to my room to discover the swan lying on its side, its wings broken. My heart leapt.  Why did it break, I asked myself. Because there was no one else around and the windows were closed. I dismissed it all, went to the kitchen to prepare dinner.

About half of an hour later my cell phone rang. “He’s gone, he’s gone,” Ann screamed. Her cries pierced my ears, my soul, my body.

“Who? I asked.

“Peter, Peter, my only son, he’s gone.” The phone went dead. I ran to the bedroom, held that broken bird. Sobbed.

Later I learned that he died in a car crash, on his way home from a business trip. 

After his death, I carried that broken swan in my handbag. The swan has traveled to all the countries Peter promised to visit. Until one day, I realized my tears no longer flowed when I uttered his name or look fixedly at his photos. A quietness had settled within me. I thought it was time for Peter to be made whole again. To fly away. And Ann and I had decided it was time to start celebrating Christmas again. However muted.

At our first holiday get together I visited the shop where Peter had originally bought the bird when he was just a little boy. 

“Do you have this one?” I asked the sales associate. I softly unravelled the tissue paper and showed her the broken swan.

 “Let me go look,” she said. She opened the display case and searched. “You’re lucky. This is my last one.”

She placed it in the palm of my hand. And memories of a little boy, in another place, in another time, flooded my heart. I smiled and swallowed my tears.

“Is it a gift?” she asked. “Shall I wrap it?”

“Yes, please,” I said.

***

Evena Gottschalk grew up on the island of Barbados listening to stories told by her grandmother. Now free to pursue her passion for storytelling, she spends time reading and writing. When not working on her novel, she watches British detective shows. She has spent most of her adult life in Canada with a brief stint in Uppsala, Sweden.

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