An Advent Calendar - 1. Door#1 - The Sweater

The Sweater

Steam rose from the piping hot black liquid contained in a mug shaped like Rudolph’s head. It dissipated as it hit the cool air, becoming a part of the atmosphere in a process as ephemeral as the thoughts of the one who held the novelty mug. The bay window revealed a breathtaking dawn. Red and yellow streaks colored large, puffy clouds in a display meant to celebrate the importance of the day.

How many times had he come down the stairs to find Tommy in this very chair, drinking coffee out of that stupid Rudolph mug, staring out the window with that hint of a smile that never failed to make him weak in the knees? Dean wondered. He cradled both hands around the mug, hoping the heat radiating through his palms would reach his heart.

This was Tommy’s favorite time of day. Dean never could stand to get up early, while Tommy was up at the crack of dawn every day, sipping coffee in front of the bay window. It was his ‘me’ time, he explained. He could read, write, or just sit with his thoughts and prepare for the day. Dean would stumble down the stairs a couple of hours later, mumbling for coffee—which would be waiting for him, cream and two sugars already added—before joining Tommy in the living room to sit in silence and let the caffeine do its job. It was never an uncomfortable silence. Just being in Tommy’s presence was enough for Dean.

He sighed, setting the untouched beverage on the end table next to the recliner. Christmas was the one morning he got up as early as Tommy. They would make a pot of coffee and sip it as they ate the cookies left out for Santa the night before. It was never a long wait before their daughter came bounding down the stairs, eager to see what Santa had left her under the tree.

She never lost that enthusiasm for the excitement of the day, even as a sullen teenager. Every Christmas morning she was up as early as they were. The tradition was to open their stockings, then tear into the pile of presents that seemed to get bigger every year. After opening presents, Tommy and Dean would head into the kitchen to prepare a breakfast feast—quiche, homemade chocolate chip muffins, bacon, and sausage.

A tear slid down Dean’s cheek as he thought of the groceries that now sat in the fridge. He wasn’t sure he’d have the strength to make their favorite meal this year. He wiped it away as the sound of soft footsteps drew his attention. Ashley was sixteen now and looked so grown-up as she descended the stairs that it made Dean long for time to slow down so he could enjoy his little girl just a bit longer.

“Morning, Dad. Merry Christmas,” she said, then leaned down and kissed his cheek. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m not going to lie, sweetheart. It’s been tough.”

She nodded. “I know...it’s been tough on all of us.” She reached under the tree and withdrew a colorful, rectangular package. She caressed it briefly before handing it to her father.

“What’s this? We usually open our stockings first.”

“You need to open this one first, Dad,” she said softly.

Dean carefully removed the wrapping, undoing each piece of tape one a time.

“Oh my God, Dad…you always open them so slow! Just tear it open!”

Dean smiled. Tommy had always said the same thing. He finished removing the wrapping paper and carefully lifted the white lid off the thin, cardboard box. His stomach lurched when he saw the sweater nestled carefully inside. He closed his eyes and placed his hand on the fabric to still his trembling. When he reopened his eyes, his heart skipped a beat as he looked into the sympathetic emerald orbs of his daughter—a color that was as familiar to him as his own breath.

“Where did you find this?” he whispered.

“In the back of your closet. You haven’t worn it once this season.”

“I thought you hated this sweater.”

She laughed. “It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. But I can’t imagine spending a Christmas without you wearing it.”

Dean removed the sweater and clutched it to his chest. The scent of Tommy’s cologne was too much for him, and he balled his hands into fists around the bright red fabric as he dissolved into sobs. Ashley was by his side immediately, and threw her arms around him as they expressed their grief together.

“I miss him so much, Dad,” she said.

“So do I, sweetheart. Every day.”

“He would want you to wear it.”

He nodded. “I know. It’s just hard to remember. Do you know the story behind the sweater?”

Ashley smiled. “Yeah. He told me last Christmas after I made a comment about how much I hated it.”

She took it from him and held it up. Fuzzy snowmen dressed in scarves and top hats decorated a yarn Christmas tree. It had real bells and a plastic star sewn on the top of the tree. It was hideous even by ugly sweater standards.

“It is awful, isn’t it?” Dean admitted.

“Yeah, it sure is.” She rose from the chair. “Want another cup of coffee?”

He shook his head. “I haven’t even finished this one.”

“OK. I’m going to get myself a cup.”

Ashley retreated to the kitchen as Dean’s thoughts turned to the time he first met Tommy. He was sixteen years old and had received the sweater as a present from his grandmother. After many arguments and teenage tantrums, his mother had won the ‘battle of the sweater’ and made Dean wear it to their annual neighborhood Christmas party. That was where he met his new neighbors from across the street and their beautiful, green-eyed son.

He would never forget how mortified he was when the other boy looked him over, then said “Nice sweater,” with a barely concealed smirk. There was a spark in those emerald eyes that had drawn him in, resulting in friendship, a relationship, then a marriage that lasted over ten years. Dean wore the sweater every Christmas. First as a joke, then it became tradition. Now that Tommy was gone, he had stuffed it in the back of his closet, afraid of the memories. As painful as it was to remember, he was glad that Ashley had found it.

“We have to honor our traditions, Dad. Pop always said that. There are so many good times that we can’t forget. I know it hurts, but it hurts more to keep them locked away.”

“How did I get such a wise daughter?” Dean had never been prouder of her.

“Easy…from two very wise fathers. Now, let’s open our stockings so we can start on breakfast. I’m starving.”