The Angel Waiting by the Window

Story one: The Angel on the Branch. Decorating the Christmas tree was a sacred ritual in my family.

One ornament was older than the others. We just called it The Angel. It was carved from

dark wood, with delicate skeletal wings. Its face wasn't smiling.

Its blue painted eyes seemed to hold an ancient sadness. Mom said it belonged to her grandmother,

Elise, who died in the very house we now called home. Our tradition was

to hang it on the most prominent branch, at eye level, where it could watch over the room.

That year, I was 15, and I was the one who hung The Angel. I remember its cold

weight as I nestled it onto a sturdy branch, facing the fireplace. A few days later,