'Every Year'

Every year I tell myself that I'm going to take the lights off of dad's old truck. I tell myself it'll help me get past the pain. So the day after Thanksgiving, while the rest of the world fights crowded stores, I set off across the yard to make good on my promise.

The old pickup is parked next to one of the big metal sheds on the ranch. Buried in the snow, two of the wheels have gone completely flat. It doesn't run, anyway. The fuel pump went out years ago, and the transmission needs to be replaced.

The gray gas-guzzler isn't worth much anymore, but I just can't seem to get rid of it-let alone remove the myriad of Christmas lights winding their way around every nook and cranny.

I climb into the bed of the truck, reaching for the end of row of lights and am assaulted by memories of the seven of us kids crammed into the back of this very truck as we bounced through alfalfa fields, dad driving and singing along with the radio at the top of his lungs.

But if the memory of dad's off-tune singing brings a smile to my face, the view of the driver's side wheel-well makes my stomach drop. I can almost see little Jenny Lynn's laughing face, framed by springing blond curls, pink cheeks glowing in the summer sun. She loved that ride that day.

Until our brother Donny pushed her at the exact moment that the wheel of the truck hit a rut.

The truck jostled, and we all bounced. Jenny went sailing.

As the oldest brother, I was over the railing, on the ground running before dad even hit the breaks. When I got to Jenny, her arm was twisted at a funny angle, but she still had a smile on her face.

"Jen, are you okay?"

She nodded just a fraction of an inch. "Think so. But my arm hurts."

I smiled. She was my favorite of my siblings, and a tough cookie for a nine-year-old. But what could you expect with six older brothers?

I scooped her up in my arms, being careful not to bump her broken arm, and walked toward the truck. Five boys pressed against the tailgate as dad ran toward us.

As it turned out, Jenny's broken arm soon became the least of our concerns. The first trip to the hospital led to a series of tests, blood work, and ultimately a diagnosis.

Leukemia.

Three days before Christmas that year, Jenny took a turn for the worse. And even though the family made plans to celebrate on Christmas morning in her hospital room, it just wasn't enough.

I was facing the first Christmas Eve in five years without the special tradition only Jenny and I shared. We'd wait until everyone was asleep, then I'd go get her out of bed. We'd creep down to the mudroom and put on our coats and snow pants right over our pajamas.

Jenny squealed every year when I opened the door and the blast of cold air hit bits of exposed skin. She'd run ahead and I'd chase her around the old ranch house.

When we'd get to the front yard, we'd stare up at the lights on the house, just enjoying the brilliance against the black sky. Then we'd fall back into the fluffy snow and flap our arms and legs forever. When we were tired and freezing, I'd carefully get up and then lift Jenny, arms outstretched as she waited for me.

Every year mom and dad made a big fuss out of discovering who had left two such perfect angels in the front yard. Of course, they had known. It wasn't hard to decipher the biggest and the littlest. I think they liked that Jenny and I had a special bond, special memories.

As I lay in bed that Christmas Eve Jenny was in the hospital, I pondered those memories. Jenny's radiant smile, illuminated only by the Christmas lights, and mom's knowing grins the next morning.

I longed to lie next to Jenny in the snow, to hold her hand as she fell backward, caught only by mounds of powder. To gaze at the lights, appreciating their soft glow and hear Jenny's giggles of sheer joy.

And then an idea formed in my mind. It was a fleeting idea that took hold in the recesses of my imagination and bloomed into a full-fledged plan. I sprang out of bed, stubbing my toe, hollering, as I pulled on my pants. My brother Jeff grunted and rolled over on the other side of the room.

Carrying my boots, I tiptoed down to the basement, where I found string after string of Christmas lights. They were mostly large blubs that dad had replaced with more popular icicle lights for the house. I found wire twist-ties and the conversion cord to attach them to the truck's battery. My arms were full when I raced back through the house, stopping only to grab the keys to the truck.

The hours in the cold only served to make my fingers numb, but it couldn't dampen my resolve. When every bulb was all in place, I threw the extra twist-ties into the cab and jumped behind the wheel.

The engine rumbled to life, breaking the early morning silence and likely waking mom. I hoped all those knowing grins would save me from any retribution for borrowing dad's truck, as I steered toward the hospital.

On Jenny's floor at the hospital, I snuck past the night nurse, who I was sure had been a prison guard at some point. The door pushed open silently, but Jenny turned immediately, sensing that she wasn't alone.

"Jimmy," she sighed, a grin tugging at the corner of her lips.

"Hey, kiddo. I have a present for you." I scooped her up, careful not to jostle her IVs, much like the day she broke her arm.

At the window I opened the blinds so she could see the truck, shining like a beacon in the parking lot. She sighed a little deeper, laying her head on my shoulder.

"I knew you'd come. It's not Christmas without the lights."

"Merry Christmas, Jen." I kissed the top of her head and stood there for hours.

As I stare at the same lights from that night nearly ten years ago, my heart breaks again. Jenny's been gone nearly as long, but I can't seem let them go. So I put down the end of the line I picked up and jump to the ground. Several inches of snow cushions my landing, and for the first time since Jenny was by my side, I let myself fall back.

When I stand up from the fresh snow angel, I do something I've never considered before. I plug the lights into an extension cord from the shed and am transported to a different time. A happy time.

The lights and angel are good memories. I don't want to forget them-forget my special Jenny memories.

I won't tell myself to take down the lights next year.