Last Christmas on Moravian Lane
written by: Genna Anneliese
I was jostled awake by the curb under the tires of our family van. Oma’s house always seemed so close because it was far enough away for me to fall asleep to the hum of the expressway. Caught in a web of beige-bricked suburbs, hers was a tall, warm, wood home with timbers just like her parents’ back in Austria.
We all scuttled up the slushy driveway in our best dresses, and me in my itchy tights. As we passed the garden that had not fared well in this Michigan winter, my mother muttered, “The rose bushes should have been cut down by now.” Up the snowy and unshoveled porch, and behind the heavy oak door, we found our grandmother to be quite surprised to see us, but then again, maybe she was just excited– her six rambunctious grandkids were her favorite visitors after all.
It was unreasonably warm inside, yet she was all bundled up in scarves and layers and that orange and yellow afghan, the one we crocheted together all those years ago. Behind her, the tree was much smaller this year, paling in comparison to the grandiose one that filled the foyer last Christmas.
In the kitchen, there was a stuffiness I didn’t expect, and the heat was so thick I wondered if she had aired out the house at all this week. In a huff, my mother got to work with the serving plates, and as I began to help, I noticed, “What’s Oma’s camera doing in the knife drawer?” But Mom was already in full hosting mode, busy unpacking every dish she brought. I peeked around the corner to see Oma now lying on the couch that was only made for sitting. She had always loved to host but I guess she couldn’t move like she used to.
“Dinner’s ready,” my mother called from the kitchen. My brothers had already been fighting over the bowl of almonds left on the unset dining room table. Our Christmas Eve dinners here were always lively and full of stories, and truly, this was no different. One after another, we ping ponged off each other’s latest blunders and brags while Oma sat quietly, fixated on the unraveling hem of her apron.
“It smells like you made your world-famous brownies again,” I nudged at her, and after too much hesitation, I got up and served them myself.
As we were digging in, she jumped up, “My camera! I must get my camera and take a photo of your beautiful faces!”
Once she was in the other room, I joked, “I don’t remember this much eggshell in her brownies.” Mother chalked it up to her old age, “Oh, stop, she can’t whisk that well anymore, just eat.”
She’s just getting old, I told myself when my eye caught a glimpse of her beloved cacti collection now becoming a home for spiders and dust. The piano, too. This woman loved music more than life itself and composed a song for us on every occasion; surely she would have been practicing. But the glossy black grand was buried in unfeathered dust, without a single print from her portly, delicate fingers. She’s just getting old, I reminded myself, maybe she’s been too tired lately, or maybe her arthritis is back.
Soon enough, my brothers were fighting over the last row of brownies when Dad leaned over to Mom and asked, “Where’s your mother?”
***
When I say we checked everywhere, I mean everywhere. We looked in the bathroom, upstairs, downstairs, the garage, her bedroom, the laundry room, but she simply wasn’t there. Panic set in, and the look on my mother’s face made my stomach drop. We lost her. We lost our grandmother?
We split up, some in the car, some stayed home, and just a little while later, we got a call from Dad that they found her a few streets over. Apparently, somewhere along the way while looking for her camera, she decided to go for a walk and couldn’t remember which house was hers.
The relief that washed over us would very soon be accompanied by the realization that this wasn’t just a momentary lapse. The house now held a quiet fear, and the once familiar warmth now felt heavy and immovable, as if the walls themselves were trying to contain the last Christmas on Moravian Lane.
- Last Christmas on Moravian Lane - December 18, 2025
