12/07/2025
By Jonathan Austen
Please read. So touching.
TWELVE DAYS
A Christmas Story from the White Mountains
The accident happened on December 13th.
Jake saw it from his truck: the silver sedan fishtailing on black ice, the guardrail that didn’t hold, the long drop into the ravine off Highway 260. He jumped out and went down the slope first, boots slipping on frozen pine needles, phone already dialing 911.
The driver was unconscious. Breathing. A woman, maybe thirty, with a gash across her forehead that bled too much. Her purse had spilled across the passenger seat. Wallet. Lipstick. A small notebook with dates circled in red.
December 25th circled twice.
Jake stayed with her until the helicopter came. Watched it lift off toward Flagstaff Medical Center. Drove home with his hands still shaking.
He didn’t know why he kept the notebook. It had fallen out when the EMTs moved her. Small thing. Easy to miss.
Inside, someone had written a list.
12 days until Christmas. 12 things to do.
The first item: Donate to White Mountain Helping Hands.
Jake stood in his kitchen that night, the notebook open on the counter.
Forty years in The City of Show Low. Two kids raised. A wife buried three Christmases ago. He knew about lists. About plans that got interrupted.
The woman’s name was on her license, tucked in the wallet the EMTs had left with him to give to the sheriff. Emma Mitchell. Phoenix address. Emergency contact: Mom.
He called the hospital. She was in surgery. Stable. That’s all they’d say.
Jake looked at the list again.
Twelve days. Twelve things.
He picked up his keys.
***
White Mountain Helping Hands was closing when he got there. Marsha Grombly was locking up, her jacket dusted with snow.
“Jake Torres? What are you doing out after dark? You look like you lost a bet. Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” He pulled out his wallet. “I want to make a donation.”
Marsha’s eyebrows went up. “A donation. You.”
“Hundred dollars.”
She unlocked the door, led him inside, wrote him a receipt. Her handwriting was careful, practiced.
“This for anything specific?”
“Someone who can’t be here to do it herself.”
Marsha studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Alright then.”
***
Day two: Volunteer at Show Low Senior Center.
Jake showed up at eleven. The center was busy, seniors filing in for lunch. A woman in a baseball cap handed him an apron. Hair barely showed underneath, cropped short. She looked haggard, worn down by something. When she smiled, a gap showed where a tooth should be. The whole room seemed brighter.
“You volunteerin’ or did someone rope you into this?”
“Just helping out.”
“Well, bless you. Coffee’s there, tea’s there. Don’t drown no one.”
He spent two hours pouring coffee and iced tea, clearing plates, wiping down tables. The seniors were chatty. One old man named Harold told him about flying bombers in Korea, didn’t stop for twenty minutes.
“Coffee’s weak,” Harold said.
“I didn’t make it.”
“Still weak.”
The woman in the cap found Jake at the end. “If you show up again tomorrow, I won’t complain none.”
“Maybe.”
“Mm-hmm. We’ll see.”
Jake drove home thinking about Harold. About how the man’s hands shook when he lifted his cup. About how he talked for twenty minutes and Jake had just listened. When was the last time he’d done that? Just sat. Just listened.
***
Day three: Buy gifts for Angel Tree at Linden Elementary.
Jake went to Walmart. Stood in the toy aisle for twenty minutes, completely lost. A woman with a cart full of groceries stopped next to him, kid tugging on her coat.
“You’ve been staring at that shelf like it owes you money.”
“I’m buying toys. For the Angel Tree over at Linden Elementary. I don’t know what kids like anymore.”
She smiled, glanced at the price tags. “How old?”
Jake looked at the list. Emma had written ages next to this one. 8, 10, 12.
“Three kids. Different ages.”
The woman helped him pick things out. A stuffed dog. A science kit. A basketball. Her kid kept asking for candy. She kept saying no.
She followed him to checkout.
“This is a good thing you’re doing.”
“It’s not my list.”
“Doesn’t matter whose list it is. Good’s good.”
Jake loaded the bags into his truck. Sat there for a minute in the parking lot, engine running, heat blasting. He thought about his own kids. How they used to make lists. How Sarah would circle things three times for emphasis. How Michael added footnotes explaining why he needed a new skateboard.
He hadn’t thought about that in years.
He drove to Linden Elementary, wrapped gifts sitting in the passenger seat. The school office was warm. A woman at the desk looked up.
“Can I help you?”
“Bringing back Angel Tree gifts.”
“Oh wonderful! Mrs. Holyoak will be so happy. Just set them under the tree there.”
Jake placed the wrapped packages carefully. Three tags, three kids. He hoped he’d picked right.
***
Day four: Drop off food at Clay Springs Pinedale Fire Department.
The station was quiet when Jake pulled up. One truck sat in the bay, doors open. A young guy in navy pants and a department T-shirt was checking equipment.
“Help you?”
“Brought some supplies.” Jake held up the bags. “Paper towels, trash bags, cleaning stuff. And some steaks.”
The firefighter raised his eyebrows. “Steaks?”
“Figured you could grill them.”
“You have no idea. Budget’s tight and we’ve been running low on everything.” He called inside. “Hey, someone brought station supplies! And ribeyes!”
Two more firefighters appeared. They unloaded the bags, grateful. One held up the steaks like he’d won the lottery. Another asked if Jake was running for office.
“No.”
“Good. Last thing we need is another guy running for something.”
They invited him in for coffee. Jake almost said no, but one of them was already pouring a cup, and it felt rude to leave.
They talked about the season, about calls they’d run, about a structure fire in Pinetop that took six hours to contain. Jake found himself telling them about the accident on Highway 260, about staying with Emma until the helicopter came.
“That was you?” The young firefighter looked impressed. “We heard about that. Word was someone stayed with her the whole time. Kept her stable.”
Jake shrugged. “Just did what anyone would do.”
“No,” the firefighter said. “Most people panic. You didn’t.”
When Jake left, they shook his hand and told him to come back anytime. One of them was already firing up the grill.
He sat in his truck for a moment before starting the engine. He realized he’d just spent an hour talking to people. He hadn’t done that in months.
***
Day five: Visit someone at Haven Health Lakeside.
Jake asked the receptionist for someone who didn’t get visitors. She didn’t hesitate.
“Frank. Room 118.”
Frank was sitting in a chair by the window when Jake knocked. Old. Thin. Oxygen tubes in his nose.
“You lost?” Frank asked.
“No. Just visiting.”
“Don’t know you.”
“I know.”
Frank studied him. “You from one of those church groups?”
“No.”
“Good. They always want to pray at you.” He gestured to the other chair. “Sit if you’re staying. Don’t if you’re not.”
Jake sat.
Frank told him about working on the railroad in the fifties. About laying track through the mountains. About the summer it got so hot they had to work at night. He talked about his wife, Betty, who’d died in 2003. About how she used to pack his lunch every morning and slip notes into the bag.
“What did the notes say?” Jake asked.
“Stupid stuff. ‘Don’t forget to eat your apple.’ ‘Love you even when you snore.’” Frank smiled, small and sad. “I kept them all. Got a shoebox full of them in the closet.”
Jake thought about his own wife. About the ways she used to show love. How she’d warm up his truck on cold mornings. How she’d leave coffee in the pot for him even when she was running late.
He’d forgotten that. How had he forgotten that?
Frank fell asleep mid-sentence. Jake stayed, watching him breathe. Then he got up, quietly, and left.
On the way out, he stopped at the desk.
“I’ll be back next week,” he told the receptionist.
She smiled. “Frank will like that.”
***
Day six: Leave flowers at the cemetery.
The cemetery was covered in snow. Jake walked the rows, looking for a grave that seemed forgotten. Most had fresh decorations. Wreaths. Plastic poinsettias. Signs of remembering.
He found one at the edge. Plain headstone. No flowers. No ornaments. Just a name and dates.
Margaret Sullivan 1942-2019
Jake knelt down and brushed the snow off. Set the bouquet from Safeway against the stone. White carnations. Simple.
He didn’t know Margaret Sullivan. Didn’t know if she had kids or grandkids. Didn’t know why no one had come.
But she’d lived. That mattered.
He stayed for a while. Just being there.
When he stood up to leave, he noticed another grave nearby. Equally bare. And another beyond that.
He made a mental note. Came back the next day with more flowers and filled in the gaps.
***
Day seven: Support Equine WellBeing Rescue Inc..
The rescue was in Snowflake. Jake wrote them a check, asked if they needed help with anything.
“We’re spreading hay in about five minutes,” Christine Griffin said. “You look like a guy who can lift a bale without complaining.”
Jake spent three hours hauling bales and breaking ice off buckets. His hands were numb. His back ached. But the donkeys watched him with those patient eyes, soft noses reaching over the fence.
One of them, a gray with scars on his legs, followed Jake along the fence line. Not begging. Just staying close.
“That’s Junebug,” Christine said. “She sticks to me like glue when I visit.”
Jake reached out slowly. Junebug’s nose was warm against his palm.
“You got room to adopt?” Christine asked, leaning on the fence.
Jake thought about his empty barn. The stalls he hadn’t used in years. “Maybe.”
“They’re good company. Better than most people, anyway.” She paused. “Think about it. Junebug could use someone steady.”
Jake looked at the donkey. At the way she stood there, patient and waiting.
“I’ll think about it,” he said.
Driving home, he realized he meant it.
***
Day eight: Attend the Snowflake-Taylor, AZ Lobos Senior Night game.
Jake hadn’t been to a football game since his son graduated. That was seven years ago. Michael had been a linebacker. Jake had gone to every game.
Then Sarah got sick. Then Michael moved to Tucson. Then everything changed.
The stands were packed. Families bundled in blankets. The smell of hot chocolate and popcorn. Jake found a seat near the top.
It was a rivalry game. Intermountain conference. Home field. The energy in the crowd was electric.
The Lobos won by three points. The crowd went wild.
Jake found himself standing too, cheering, caught up in it.
Walking to his truck afterward, he thought about Michael. About how they used to drive home together after games, replaying every big play. About how he’d let that slip away.
He pulled out his phone. Texted Michael.
Went to a Lobos game tonight. Made me think of you. Hope you’re doing okay.
Michael texted back ten minutes later.
Miss those games. Miss you too, Dad.
Jake sat in his truck, staring at the screen.
***
Day nine: Buy dinner for a stranger.
He went to Bertie's White Mountain Cafe & Donuts. Sat at the counter. When a young couple came in, looking at the menu like they were counting dollars, Jake told the waitress to put their meal on his tab.
The waitress raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”
“Yeah.”
The couple tried to thank him. Jake waved them off.
The waitress refilled his coffee without asking. “Didn’t have you pegged for the Santa type. Proves what I know.”
Jake smiled. Small. Unexpected.
When he left, the couple was still at their table. The woman had her hand on the man’s arm. They were laughing about something.
Jake drove home feeling something he couldn’t quite name. Not happiness exactly. But close.
***
Day ten: Deliver firewood to someone who needs it.
Jake spent the morning splitting wood. His shoulders burned. His hands blistered. But there was something good about the work. Something solid.
He loaded his truck and drove to the address Marsha gave him from the Helping Hands list.
An old woman answered. Oxygen tank. Tired eyes.
“I didn’t order any wood.”
“I know. Might’ve needed it anyway.”
He stacked it on her porch. She watched from the doorway, wrapped in a blanket.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because someone would have. If she’d been here to do it.”
The woman studied him. “You’re a strange man.”
“Yeah.”
“Strange in a good way.” She smiled, just a little. “Thank you.”
Jake finished stacking. When he turned to leave, she was still standing there.
“You take care of yourself,” she said.
“You too.”
***
Day eleven: Donate to Fishers of Men for Veterans.
Day twelve: Light a candle for someone at a Christmas Eve service.
Jake hadn’t been to church since Sarah died. Three years. He’d driven past it every week, never stopped.
The parking lot was full on Christmas Eve. Families filing in. Kids in their good clothes. He sat in his truck for five minutes before getting out.
The sanctuary was warm. Candles everywhere. He slipped into the back pew.
The service was what he remembered. Carols. Scripture. People he recognized but hadn’t spoken to in years. When they got to the part about lighting candles, the pastor invited anyone who wanted to light one for someone in need.
Jake stood. Walked to the front. Lit a candle.
For Emma. The woman from the accident. He didn’t know if she was okay. Didn’t know if she’d wake up. But he’d done her list. Seemed right to pray for her too.
He lit another one.
Didn’t say who it was for. Didn’t need to.
When he walked out to the parking lot after the service, his phone buzzed. The hospital.
Emma Mitchell was awake. Asking about her things.
***
Jake drove to Flagstaff on Christmas Day.
Emma was sitting up in bed, bandage across her forehead, arm in a sling. She looked small. Breakable.
“You’re the one who found me.”
“Yeah.”
“They said you stayed with me.”
Jake set her purse on the table. Her wallet. Her notebook.
Emma picked it up, flipped through the pages. Her face crumpled.
“First Christmas without my dad.” Her voice broke. “I thought doing things would help. Keep me together. Turns out that’s harder than it sounds.”
Jake sat down in the chair by her bed. Waited.
“He loved Christmas,” Emma said quietly. “Not the presents or the decorations. The doing. He’d spend the whole month finding ways to help people. Anonymous stuff, mostly. He’d leave groceries on porches. Pay off layaway accounts at Walmart. Shovel driveways for elderly neighbors.” She wiped her eyes. “I wanted to be like that. Like him.”
Jake thought about the list. About Emma driving up from Phoenix to do these things. About plans that got interrupted.
“I did them,” he said quietly.
Emma looked up. “What?”
“The list. All twelve days.”
Her eyes filled.
“Why?”
“Your dad would’ve wanted them done. Leaving it undone felt… wrong.”
Emma wiped her eyes with the back of her good hand. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
“But you did anyway.”
“Yeah.”
She was quiet for a moment. Then she smiled, small and tired. “There was a thirteenth thing. I was going to write it when I finished the others.”
“What was it?”
“Start again. Make a new list for next year.”
***
Jake drove home through the mountains. The roads were clear. The sky was that particular blue that only happens after snow.
When he got home, he found a notebook in his junk drawer. Opened to a clean page.
He thought about the last twelve days. About Harold and his weak coffee. About Frank and his shoebox of notes. About Michael’s text.
About how he’d been living like a ghost for three years.
Not anymore.
He picked up a pen and started writing.
Visit Frank every Tuesday.
Call Michael once a week.
Go back to the senior center.
He paused. Thought about Emma. About her dad. About doing when it mattered.
He kept writing.
***
Two weeks later, Jake got the call from Christine about Junebug. The adoption had gone through. He drove to Snowflake with a borrowed trailer.
Junebug loaded easily. Stood quiet in the trailer for the whole drive home.
Jake backed up to his barn, opened the doors he hadn’t opened in three years, and led Junebug inside. The donkey walked straight to a stall like she’d always belonged there.
Jake stood there for a moment, listening to her settle in. The barn didn’t feel so empty anymore.
***
That spring, the WMIcentral ran a story about an anonymous donor leaving flowers on forgotten graves every week since Christmas. About someone who’d started a program connecting seniors with volunteers for weekly visits. About a small wave of kindness that started with a list.
They never figured out who started it.
Jake liked it that way.
***
Merry Christmas
