Growing up, we could hang any ornament we wanted to on our Christmas tree, save one: the Christmas sheep. That one belonged to Dad. Broken leg. Dirty wool. Worn ribbon. Dad's.
I found out why this Thanksgiving. For his very first Christmas, his parents had given him the sheep. His dad died before his second Christmas. This is the only gift he remembers ever getting from the father he never knew.
After Mom died, the Christmas decorations stayed packed away. Until I asked Dad last month for the Christmas sheep which now hangs proudly on my tree . . .
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