The Christmas Letters by Bret Nicholaus

I T'S BEEN ABOUT SIX MONTHS SINCE that cool and rainy June afternoon when Grandpa passed away. Last Christmas Eve, he predicted that he would not be around to celebrate another Christmas with us, but of course we chose not to believe it. As was often the case in our family we were wrong and Grandpa was right.
    T HE FIRST FEW MONTHS WITHOUT G RANDPA were hard for many of us, as the long summer seemed to fade ever so slowly into fall. But fall in traditional fashion, picked up the pace and quickly changed to winter, bringing with it five inches of snow last Saturday afternoon. Inspired by the beauty of December's first white blanket, my wife, our six-year-old daughter, and I spent the evening bringing all our boxes of holiday decorations down from the attic.
    I N THE PAST, PREPARING FOR C HRISTMAS in our household was more likely to produce a few good arguments than it was to create feelings of goodwill. The commotion of Christmas came early and often, and bright spirits rarely lasted past the first batch of cookies.
    T HIS YEAR, HOWEVER, THINGS APPEAR to be headed in a different direction. The disagreements, fussing, and overall busyness that usually accompany the month of December are, by and large, absent; sincere joy and a true sense of peace seem to be present in our lives. There is no doubt in my mind that Christmas—and dare I say life in general—has taken on a new meaning, not only for the three of us here but for other members of our family as well.
    A S I OPENED THE LID ON THE FIRST BOX we carried down from the attic the other night, the very first thing that my fingers grabbed was an off-white envelope containing the Christmas letter Grandpa had given to me last year. For a few brief seconds I stared at the envelope, acutely aware of the fact that the letter was here but Grandpa was not.
    I GATHERED MYSELF AND SLOWLY OPENED the envelope, pulling out the letter, now nearly a year old. As I did this, I looked down at the box and saw something else—an old metal train that I put at the base of the Christmas tree every year. At once, tears welled up in my eyes and a feeling of loss began to consume me.
    Y OU SEE, THE TRAIN AND THE LETTER WERE —well, I suppose that I should take you back a year, to Christmas Eve, and explain exactly what happened on that very special night….
    W E WERE CELEBRATING C HRISTMAS at my parents' house, the aroma of simmering spices filling the air and the sumptuous dinner only minutes away from making its grand appearance on the holiday table. For the ten members of our family it was a typical Christmas Eve.
    Conversations ranged from talk about the new home my aunt and uncle had purchased to my dad's new membership in the local country club. I was just beginning to explain why my career had become so demanding of my time when Grandpa, uncharacteristically interrupted.
    “ I HAVE SOMETHING FOR EACH OF YOU ,” he said, his weakened voice sounding momentarily stronger. “I'd like to hand them out now while we're all seated together.” He called to my mom in the kitchen and beckoned her to take her place at the table. The roast had about ten minutes to go, so she came and sat down.
    “What's going on, Charles?” inquired my grandma, his wife of sixty-four years.
    Grandpa let out a deep sigh. “As you all know, I'll be eighty-six next month, and I'm not feeling any better as my days progress. This may very well be the last Christmas I get to spend with all of you, so I want to give each of you a personal letter from me.” He began to distribute nine sealed envelopes, one to each family member seated at the table.
    “ W HAT'S THE LETTER ABOUT ?” asked my wife. She, like the rest of us, was a bit confused by what he was doing.
    “I'd like each of you to open it up right now, in front of me. I'd really like that,” Grandpa said. He paused briefly before continuing. “John, why don't you start?”
    M Y DAD LOOKED AT HIM FOR A FEW SECONDS and then slowly tore into the envelope with