I guess I was was just shy of three when I made that serious and sincere pronouncement, in response to my mother's question as to what I wanted for Christmas. I'm sure there were other items on that list -- like most kids, I assume, I could fill a book for Santa if you'd just give me enough time to page through the toy catalogs -- but the one item I was certain of was a magical bear.
There wasn't much that Santa could do about that one. I think I got some extra Lego that year, and the bright red tricycle took away some of the disappointment.
Mom never let me forget about that. From time to time, just in case it had slipped through my sieve of memories, she'd bring it up and tell me again how she worried I was going to be crushed on Christmas morning. She'd recount my words back to me, using the lisp I had at the time, and tell me how cute I'd been.
Mom got to see each of us kids marry, well and happily. She got to meet her grandchildren. She got to visit the wife and I at our little campsite getaway. She got to see me finally stop smoking. She beat back the lymphoma on, like, six separate occasions. She got to enjoy the retirement home she and Dad built. She made a a lot of new friends down in Maryland, and impacted the lives of many, many more than I ever realized through her involvement in her Parish and public service work that I didn't even know about until after she died. She died a couple of weeks after Christmas a couple of years ago. Her birthday's coming up.
A few years ago...10? 15? she gave me a little 5 inch bear along with the other Christmas presents. A silly old A.A. Milne-style bear, not that disneyfied version. I don't always notice it, but it sits on the shelf in the wife's and my bedroom.
Still reminding me.