These are my mother’s Christmas choir boys. They’ve been in my house for about ten years, but my mom tells me that they’ve been a part of Christmas her whole life. They used to belong to her mother, my grandmother. She estimates that her mom probably bought them new in the 50s, when her older brother was a toddler, which I find believable by their fragile nature and impressive by the vibrant colors they still boast. They were still around to know my mother's English immigrant grandfather. They migrated around her childhood homes, from the mantle to the entertainment center to the china cabinet, but they were always there. They themselves are made of porcelain, fine enough to be called china, and must have been quite expensive when my grandma bought them. Every year we stick them high above our kitchen cabinets, away in a corner where they’re safe. The one on the far left nearly gave me a heart attack this year when he tried to fall while I was arranging his brothers. Now, my grandma has dementia. Over Thanksgiving dinner she said she didn’t remember ever having the spiced peach jello my mom has made every year since 2015. She gave them to my mom before her diagnosis, even before onset, so they’re something of a symbol of better times. What we’ve lost and what we still have. One has a huge crack scarring his face from a close call, another lost a piece of his hat in the back due to poor off-season packaging, yet their meaning holds true. If anything, those damages are a motif. Those choir boys’ value triples every year, not because of their age, but because of their story. 

– ML

Relationship:  Great-grandchild of im/migrant or more Great-grandchild of im/migrant or more