December, 20_
The shoebox was in the bottom of the last crate, carefully wedged between folded moldering curtains and wads of ancient newspaper. Steve carefully lifted it out, wondering why it looked familiar. The cardboard had yellowed, and it gave off the musty scent of old paper. He studied the Johnson & Murphy logo on the lid, amused by the slick Twenties font before he took a moment to untie the frail string that held it closed.
"Dad's wingtips, I guess," he murmured to nobody. He'd finally decided to poke around in the pair of boxes that Fury had uncovered and delivered months back, finally worked up the courage to unpack the past that the military had put into mothballs after his last mission. It had been a strange couple of hours to find his yearbooks and crumbling art supplies, his diploma and a few pieces of his mother's blue willow china. He'd cried a few tears, and felt the old sensation of new loss in the face of these artifacts; even now Steve wasn't sure if he could integrate these ghosts of his old life into his new life.
He hefted the box, realizing it was too light to be holding shoes, and for a moment Steve hesitated, unsure of what he would find. His father's medals perhaps, or maybe more bobbins of thread carefully saved on old wooden spools. His mother had been thrifty with thread, and already he had twenty or so half-full bobbins sitting on the floor behind him. Steve gave a little sigh, and hooked a finger under the lid, flipping it off.
Nestled in flaking tissue, the bright gleam of the puffy silver glass star twinkled at him, unbroken and whole, little swirls of frosted glitter forming patterns along each point. Steve stared at it, memory flooding through him as he studied it.
"Merry Christmas, mom!"
"Ohhh, the silver topper! The one from Woolworths! How did you-Steve Rogers! Those nickels were for your lunch, sweetheart. You need to eat, you know what Doctor Moore said!"
"Bucky gave me half of his everyday so I could save up for it, so I didn't starve, I swear. I just . . . I wanted to get you something nice. Something you wanted. You like it, right?"
He remembered his mother nodding, swallowing hard and lifting fifty cent ornament out of its box and holding it up. She carried it over to their little tree and pulled off the red pipe-cleaner star there, setting that one on a lower branch before reverently setting the topper into the point of the tree, working it down against the needles and fussing with it so it would sit straight . . .
"Mom," Steve whispered, eyes welling. He reached for the ornament, cradling it in his palm, looking at it.
The star had been on every Christmas tree since his ninth birthday, topping Douglas firs and Balsams, shining out through the hard years, reigning over countless holidays. His mother always unpacked it and put it on the tree first, before any other ornaments, and packed it up after the holidays keeping it separate so she could find it in the next year to keep the tradition going.
He sniffled, wiping the edge of his free hand across his cheek. "Mom," Steve repeated, his whisper hoarse. He let everything flow through him: joy, regret, pain, delight and nostalgia all mingling together through every fiber of his being.
She'd loved Christmas. Steve remembered how amused his father had been at finding garlands up the day after Thanksgiving, and later when it had only been the two of them, how his mother would draft him into hand-delivering Christmas cards to everyone, and start her baking early. She'd sing carols while running clothes through the old wringer washer, and taken him downtown to look in all the store windows in December after December.
And she'd taken him to church. He was too breathless to sing in the choir, but Father Lionel used to have him stand by the organist and turn the pages for her. Even now Steve remembered feeling the thunder of 'Joy to the World' vibrating through the thin soles of his good shoes as the carol rumbled out, the sheer exuberance of the music rolling heavenward.
Wondrous memories, and Steve let them bloom in his thoughts, accepting the sweet rush fill him with something he hadn't felt in years.
Joy.
With care he blinked his wet eyes, letting his vision clear as he stared at the tree topper in his palm. Steve gave a gusty sigh, looking up. "Okay. Point made, mom. I can do Christmas the way it should be done," he murmured with a lopsided grin.
He set the star back into the shoebox, closed the lid, and set it aside, thinking hard. Tree? Corner lot by 32d had some. Ornaments? Bound to be plenty on sale at any of a million stores at the moment. Ditto on the lights and tinsel.
The last thing though . . . that might be tougher, but Steve knew all he could do was ask. Fishing out his phone, he tapped speed dial and listened.
"Yeah, Sam . . . listen, I think . . . yeah I'm in for the soup kitchen, if you guys can still use a hand."
He listened a moment, smiling, and laughed. "No, no Santa hat . . . no, wait, you know what? You play the Andrews Sisters and Bing Crosby, I'll wear it. That's the deal."
Mellow laughter came from the other end of the phone, and Steve joined in as he wandered over to the window, looking for snowflakes and smiling.
end