Christmas Ember-Berta's Table

Christmas Ember-Berta's Table

In the deepening quiet of Christmas evening, Berta sat alone once more in her cabin, the lamp’s flame flickering low against the gathering dusk. The forest huddled close around her; pines heavy with snow, their shadows deep and blue beneath the early stars. The tree she’d brought in from the edge of the clearing stood silent in the corner, its branches still fragrant with pine sap and memory.

She cupped her hands around a cooling mug of linden tea, her gaze traveling between the frost-framed window and the empty chair where Asha had sat the day before. Poor child. The ache in her voice still lingered, a sharp thing in the air. Asha had fled the town’s bright chaos to find refuge here, among the whispering trees, carrying with her that ancient weariness: the anger at a world that spoke of peace but fed on sorrow, the fear that faith’s promises were only beautiful illusions. Berta had not argued. She had simply listened, as the snow fell quietly outside and the kettle hummed like a small, steadfast heart.

Now, in the night stillness, the cabin seemed to breathe with her. In the deepest corners, near the hearth and under the old cedar chest, she could sense the presence of the little ones she had spoken of long years ago, the gnomes and fae who kept company with the roots and stones. She had told Asha once how they moved when no one was looking: mending cracks in the floorboards, brushing the ash from the hearth, tending to the sleeping forest just beyond the porch. The neighbors might have said her mind was wandering, that age and illness had conjured them. But Berta knew better. The woods had always had their keepers.

Her mother had known it too, back in Rosengarth where the nights smelled of honey cake and woodsmoke. Every Heiligabend, the women baked and polished and whispered blessings into the bread, leaving crumbs and bits of apple on the threshold for their unseen helpers. Even in the war years, when rations thinned and fear prowled, they kept up the rituals. Hope needed small tending gestures to survive.

Every Christmas was hope alive, kindled by hands both seen and unseen. The fae taught patience for sorrow, the gnomes the quiet endurance of stone. Yesterday, when Asha had cried in her arms, Berta had felt their old magic stir again, the soft pulse beneath the grief, the hush of wings in the rafters, the promise that pain would pass and light would return.

With the stove banked and the lamp turned even lower, Berta reached into the small drawer of the side table and drew out her rosary, the old wooden beads worn smooth by decades of fingers, the crucifix warm from years carried close to her heart. She settled back into her chair, the beads slipping familiarly through her hands as she began the ancient rhythm: Pater Noster, Ave Maria, Gloria Patri. Each mystery unfolded in her mind like scenes from the Ermland chapels of her childhood, the Joyful, the Sorrowful, the Glorious, mingling with memories of Asha’s tears, of wartime Christmases, of the little footprints in the snow outside.

The prayers rose softly into the quiet cabin, a gentle thread weaving through the night. Outside, the forest listened. Tomorrow the ache would come again, for Asha and for many others, but tonight, with the rosary in her hand and the snow falling soundlessly beyond the window, Berta felt the old peace settle over her like a quilt. The thread held strong: woman to woman, spirit to earth, prayer to prayer, age to age, all bound together beneath the tall, listening pines.

A personal note, Berta (Bertha Keuchel Woywod), my grandmother loved her faeries and little people. As a little girl in East Prussia they gave her a world of wonderment in the middle of poverty and land torn to shreds from war. In her last years they came back to ease her pain when my grandfather died and as Alzheimer's settled in for her sleep.  She spoke to the faeries and would light up like a little girl telling you all about them. After grandpa died, I was 14, she reverted back to being that little girl in Rosengarth. She lost touch with her timeline and I turned into her sister and she would only speak German to me. Berta's Table chapters are extremely personal to me. I spent a lot of time with my Grandmother and her adventures through Evanston, IL visiting all her German and Polish friends. She was a gentle spirit who had a very rough life. This post tonight is for her.  Oh, and yes, she was a devout Catholic who still believed in fae -- worlds CAN co-exist. 

Author's/Artist's Note: As a disabled survivor using assistive technology, which changes day by day pending health and that day's needs- (#zebralife), I pour these chapters from my own experiences and the people I've met along the path of life. Assistive tech helps me myriad of ways present my message. If Lior's eyes reflect your shadows, reach out—resources like RAINN or Support for Men at 1in6.org are lifelines. What's next? Comments welcome, always.