Chapter 12: Twelve Years of Christmases

Sylvia Ashdown stood at the top of her porch steps in a green cardigan and pearls, leaning on a cane, with her silver hair blowing across her face.

She was smaller than the woman I'd pictured for twelve years.

She was also glaring at her son.

"You look terrible," she said. "Close your mouth, Harrison. You'll catch a fly."

"It's January."

"Then you'll catch a snowflake."

Behind her in the doorway, a gray-haired woman in an apron was trying not to smile.

Harrison climbed the steps slowly.

"Mom."

"Don't Mom me," Sylvia said. "I raised you. Come here."

She hooked his neck with her free arm and pulled his head down and kissed his cheek hard.

He stood bent at the waist, his eyes squeezed shut.

When she let go, she looked past him.

I was still on the gravel at the bottom of the steps with my hands in my coat pockets, because my feet had stopped.

Sylvia's eyes were the same blue as her son's.

They went over me slowly, from my wet boots to my hair, and it was the same thorough look I gave a new patient.

"You're the physical therapist," she said.

"Yes, ma'am."

"You're smaller than the video."

"Everyone is."

Her mouth twitched.

"Come up out of the snow, young lady. I won't bite until after supper."

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