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She wore her hair in pigtails.
She was sort of
small.
Some thought she was Chinese.
She wouldn't say anything much at
all,
just look down and smile.
This little Indian girl played
alone.
She had a few brothers around,
and one brought home a
rabbit
with fur and plastic button eyes.
He used to somehow always
find
a place close by to watch her play.
Her home was not real fancy,
but it was warm,
and when
she left to walk to school
she would put that crazy pink rabbit
in the
window to watch her go,
and to be there when she came home.
She had a
hard time as school with the way she looked
as she wore old fashioned long
dresses.
She wondered why,
when she talked to the other children,
they
would just look at her.
She couldn't understand the words they said to
her.
She tried to talk to them over and over again,
but they did not
understand.
She talked only in her native tongue.
It took a long while
for her to understand
she had to learn a new way of talking.
She fell
into silence at school,
finding herself at the back of the room.
And,
slowly,
with time,
she understood what the other kids said.
She would come home
and see that rabbit waiting for
her.
She called him "Nickmo."
I used to see her playing out back
by a
big rock that was left there.
She used to play on it,
climbing to the
top,
and sitting there with her friend Nickmo.
He had a special place
next to her at the table
and slept close by at night
to fight off
monsters who hid in the shadows,
but were afraid of Nickmo.
When he
came
they did not show themselves anymore.
As time went on his newness wore off
and he became dingy
and worn,
so that his bare threads were showing.
She would sew him
up
and drag him out to play,
His long ears were tattered and torn
but
he was there everyday for her.
He would play with her outside
and find
himself all muddy and dirty like her
and they would take a bath
together.
He just seemed to attract the dirt spots
and they would not
come out.
Then one day her father said,
"It is time to put that old
rabbit away.
He is all torn up and good for nothing."
She quietly slipped
away
and hid her friend,
but he was not yet dry from his bath.
A day, then two, went by,
and her father wondered what
that was in the air.
It was mildewy and strong.
Looking under her
clothes,
there he was,
Nickmo,
turned gray and moldy.
It was time
to put him away.
When she came home,
Nickmo was gone.
Her old friend
was gone.
She went to her bed
and cried and cried, quietly.
When it
came time to go to bed,
I happened to drop by.
I said, "I wonder what is
going on here."
Her father told me about Nickmo.
I said, "I know him."
He looked at me like I was a
child.
I said, "Don't you remember, my friend,
that little lamb you
raised long ago,
and he was your favorite one in the whole world.
Then he
was gone.
You felt so bad."
I could see it in his eyes.
In an instant
he knew what it felt like.
He told me, "I have to go."
I said, "Goodbye,"
and went on home.
As I left I heard
some one going through a trash can.
Probably some poor soul who had no
Christmas.
I thought about her at home,
alone,
wondering about
her friend,
and I mentioned it to my wife.
She listened to me
and grew
quiet.
It was Christmas Eve.
I said, "I have to go out for a little
bit
to get gas for the old wheels,
just in case we need to go somewhere
on Christmas Day."
I went looking for a store open this late hour,
and found
one by chance,
a walk around the place,
and up on the shelf,
way up
high,
was a little rabbit,
shiny and new.
"What is that rabbit doing
way up there?"
The clerk said, "It is left over from Easter."
I said,
"Let me have it."
And so I took it home
and put it away,
wrapping it
late in the night.
My wife said,
"I want to get some extra pie pans from a
couple doors down,"
and later she came home
and made pies,
staying up
late ...
so I went to bed.
There was snow on the ground,
a White Christmas.
We
got up early,
just before first light
I went outside to get wood for the
wood stove,
and I could see our neighbors up already
doing the same thing
I was.
I went inside,
and my wife said,
"Let us go over and see our
friends and their daughter,
the one who was the friend of Nickmo."
We went over and saw Nickmo's family,
and visited a
little bit.
We left them a pie
and came home for our own Christmas
and
our presents all wrapped up.
The little girl got up,
and woe was her Christmas.
Her
friend Nickmo was gone,
and she remembered yesterday,
and just lay there
in bed for a while,
and did not want to get up.
After some coaxing from the other kids
she went to the
Christmas Tree,
and the presents were opened one by one.
There were three
brightly wrapped gifts for her.
When she opened these,
there were new
rabbits,
all brothers the night before at that small store.
She looked at them,
but did not smile.
Tears were
coming to her eyes:
the thought of Nickmo,
gone
somewhere
dark,
lonely on this of all days.
Her father made his way to her
and took her back to her
bed.
She crawled up on it,
broken hearted.
It was a sad day.
She
was just so sad
and lay there with her head on the pillow.
Her father told her,
"Hey, look!
What is it that Santa
brought for you?"
He turned to the window,
and lo and behold,
there
was Nickmo,
all clean and patched.
He told his little girl,
"You have been a good
girl,
and Santa left him just for you."
She jumped for joy
and ran to
the window.
There he was:
Nickmo.
His eyes were there,
and his
patches,
clean and rough looking,
but in better shape than before.
At the Christmas table
Nickmo sat quietly,
and watched
this family
for Christmas had come early for him,
rescued by rough
hands,
once small,
that worked through the night
stuffing and
sewing,
bringing him back to life.
Who was this person,
this little
boy now a man?
Nickmo looked across the table
and could see the father
with tired eyes,
and he saw the little boy from years ago.
And it was Christmas all over again.
