Part III of my Christmas Story:
UNA POSADA PARA MONA
Copyright©2015 by Rebecca Moll, All Rights Reserved
Part III
Every day after school, Mona rushed to Freddie's Flea Market. Despite the blaring sun and oppressive California heat, the neighborhood began to feel like Christmas. All the houses were decorated with lights, red and green, blue and white. Front lawns held waiting stables, the missing family no doubt somewhere safe, waiting for the Posada. Mona's dresser held its own little flea market collection. A wooden cross with flowers, white like the mountain laurel in Colorado, a snow globe with a fat little snowman, his hat floating upside down filled with snow, and a pair of bronze baby shoes, its nameplate engraved Jesus Joseph.
On their front lawn, an assembly of sorts was taking shape. Piece by piece, Mona carried the parts from the market. Passing the church, Mona shouted in greeting to a sweeping Carmelita. Waving, friendly, yet curious, her eyebrows raised, she shouted back her well wishes.
She was getting good at haggling. The vendors recognized her. The men were friendly, the women guarded. Mona drove a hard bargain. Christmas items emerged as she made her entrance, shoulders squared, and children ran in anticipation to grab her hand, drag her to their table. She had everything she needed, but the baby Jesus. Mary and Joseph were a little faded, the shepherds half the size of the donkey, and the Angel was black, but Mona figured God didn't care. He put her here, white as snow in the land of beautiful brown people.
One morning, Mona filling her coffee mug and already late for the bus, her mother looked up and shifted her feet to the floor. "Mona, since when do you drink coffee?"
Accustomed to the lack of parental control lately, Mona shrugged her shoulders replied in monotone, "I'm late."
"I'm talking to you, young lady. What's with all the religious stuff? Your collection of junk? And that half haphazard stable out front?"
Mona looked at her mother hard. Why was she so mean? Mona thought about her father, kind and gentle. It's all her fault, she thought, why he doesn't call, why he doesn't visit. Heat rising in her, Mona threw out, "What about you, Mom. What about all your 'I'm the first to send out Christmas cards'? Why do you even send them? You don't believe in anything!" she cried, tears flooding her face, her shoulders shaking. "Sometimes I really hate you," she whispered.
Opening the door to leave, Mona heard her mother's soft reply, "Oh Mona, I'm sorry. I just don't understand. Why do you need all this stuff? What does it matter?"
Turning around, Mona dropped her shoulders and looked at the floor. "I don't know why it matters, Mom. It just does."
Next week...Part IV, The End
Copyright©2015 by Rebecca Moll, All Rights Reserved
Part III
Every day after school, Mona rushed to Freddie's Flea Market. Despite the blaring sun and oppressive California heat, the neighborhood began to feel like Christmas. All the houses were decorated with lights, red and green, blue and white. Front lawns held waiting stables, the missing family no doubt somewhere safe, waiting for the Posada. Mona's dresser held its own little flea market collection. A wooden cross with flowers, white like the mountain laurel in Colorado, a snow globe with a fat little snowman, his hat floating upside down filled with snow, and a pair of bronze baby shoes, its nameplate engraved Jesus Joseph.
On their front lawn, an assembly of sorts was taking shape. Piece by piece, Mona carried the parts from the market. Passing the church, Mona shouted in greeting to a sweeping Carmelita. Waving, friendly, yet curious, her eyebrows raised, she shouted back her well wishes.
She was getting good at haggling. The vendors recognized her. The men were friendly, the women guarded. Mona drove a hard bargain. Christmas items emerged as she made her entrance, shoulders squared, and children ran in anticipation to grab her hand, drag her to their table. She had everything she needed, but the baby Jesus. Mary and Joseph were a little faded, the shepherds half the size of the donkey, and the Angel was black, but Mona figured God didn't care. He put her here, white as snow in the land of beautiful brown people.
One morning, Mona filling her coffee mug and already late for the bus, her mother looked up and shifted her feet to the floor. "Mona, since when do you drink coffee?"
Accustomed to the lack of parental control lately, Mona shrugged her shoulders replied in monotone, "I'm late."
"I'm talking to you, young lady. What's with all the religious stuff? Your collection of junk? And that half haphazard stable out front?"
Mona looked at her mother hard. Why was she so mean? Mona thought about her father, kind and gentle. It's all her fault, she thought, why he doesn't call, why he doesn't visit. Heat rising in her, Mona threw out, "What about you, Mom. What about all your 'I'm the first to send out Christmas cards'? Why do you even send them? You don't believe in anything!" she cried, tears flooding her face, her shoulders shaking. "Sometimes I really hate you," she whispered.
Opening the door to leave, Mona heard her mother's soft reply, "Oh Mona, I'm sorry. I just don't understand. Why do you need all this stuff? What does it matter?"
Turning around, Mona dropped her shoulders and looked at the floor. "I don't know why it matters, Mom. It just does."
Next week...Part IV, The End
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