Devonne Brown

Memory is the Truth Glorified

Dad buffed his shoes, he wouldn’t look at us. “It wasn’t like that. We didn’t have big Christmases when you all were little.”

“What do you mean? Presents covered the whole living room. There were dolls with dresses. We both got Chatty Cathys that matched our hair. We got high heels and aprons, dresses and pajamas, pocket books, books, and necklaces.”

“You each got a doll with a dress. One toy a piece. You were lucky to get that.” His shoes got shinier and shinier. He spent a lot of time buffing his shoes. He took pride in making his shoes shine like mirrors. He wore black dress shoes to work. He always said the most expensive thing you could buy was a cheap pair of shoes. He was a barber and stood on his feet all day. I guess he spent most of his money on shoes.

“I went with Early, that’s what he called his dad, “to cut down a tree in the woods behind the house. All we had were icicles your grandma gave us. You girls colored the decorations on grocery sacks. Your mom made cut outs to look like ornaments. I bought one string of lights for the tree.”

“We had the prettiest tree in the world. It was bright and shiny and full of bright glass ornaments and lights. Mom wouldn’t let us put the icicles on it though. They had to be draped a certain way, one icicle at a time, so they hung straight down.” Dad missed a spot on his shoes, and had to keep buffing. 

“You all remember what you want. I’m telling you like it was.”