Question The Christmas List

I have a list. It's in my phone. A note I've been adding to for three years. It's not a to-do list. It's not a grocery list. It's a list of things I would buy if I had money. A new mattress. My current one has a dip in the middle where I've been sleeping for five years. A pair of boots that don't leak. I live in Seattle. It rains. My boots leak. A weekend trip somewhere warm. I haven't seen the sun in months. A dinner at a restaurant where the menu doesn't have pictures. A gift for my mom. Something nice. Something she wouldn't buy for herself.I'm a nursing assistant. I work twelve-hour shifts at a hospital downtown. I help people walk. I help people eat. I help people use the bathroom. I clean bedpans. I change sheets. I hold hands when patients are scared. I make eighteen dollars an hour. I work overtime when I can. I pick up shifts when people call out. I do the math every month. Rent. Groceries. Bus pass. Phone bill. The math leaves nothing. The list stays in my phone.Christmas was coming. My mom asked what I wanted. I said nothing. She asked what I was getting her. I said I was working on it. I wasn't working on it. I had thirty dollars in my checking account. Thirty dollars for a Christmas gift for my mom. Thirty dollars for food for the week. Thirty dollars for everything. I sat in my apartment on a Tuesday night. My shift started at 7 AM. I had to be up in six hours. I couldn't sleep. I was thinking about the list. The mattress. The boots. The trip. The dinner. The gift for my mom.I opened my phone. I scrolled through the list. I closed it. I opened a browser. I don't know why. I was looking for something. A sale. A coupon. A miracle. I had a bookmark I'd saved a year ago. I don't remember saving it. It was just there. I clicked it. The site loaded. I looked at it for a while. I'd never gambled before. Not once. I'd walked past casinos in Vegas when I went to a conference once. That was it. But I was sitting in my apartment, with thirty dollars in my account and a list in my phone and a Christmas gift I couldn't afford. I decided to Vavada sign up .I deposited twenty dollars. I kept ten for food. I told myself I'd play for an hour. I told myself I'd stop when I lost. I told myself a lot of things. I played a slot game. Something with bells and cherries. The kind of game that looks like it's from the eighties. I bet small. A dollar a spin. I lost the first five. Down to fifteen. I lost another three. Down to twelve. I was losing the way I expected to lose. Quickly. Quietly. Like the money was never mine.I was down to ten dollars when I hit something. Three bells. The screen flashed. The music changed. A bonus round. I didn't know what it meant. I just watched. The reels spun automatically. Numbers appeared. Ten dollars became twenty. Twenty became forty. Forty became eighty. I sat up. My apartment was dark. My shift was in five hours. I was watching numbers climb. Eighty became a hundred and sixty. A hundred and sixty became three hundred and twenty. Three hundred and twenty became six hundred and forty. The bonus ended. My balance was six hundred and forty dollars.I stared at the screen. I didn't move. I didn't breathe. Six hundred and forty dollars. From twenty dollars. From a slot game I picked because it looked like something my grandmother would play. I cashed out. Every cent. I closed the app. I sat in the dark. My shift was in four hours. I didn't sleep.The money hit my account two days later. Six hundred and forty dollars. I bought my mom a coat. A nice one. Warm. Waterproof. The kind she would never buy for herself. I bought myself a new mattress. Not a fancy one. A memory foam one from a website. It came in a box. I opened it on my floor. It expanded slowly. Like something coming back to life. I slept on it that night. I slept through my alarm. I was late for my shift. I didn't care.I bought boots. The boots that don't leak. I bought them from a store downtown. I put them on and walked in the rain. My feet stayed dry. I bought a dinner. A restaurant with no pictures on the menu. I sat at the bar. I ordered steak. I ordered wine. I ordered dessert. I ate alone. I talked to the bartender about nothing. He asked what I was celebrating. I said a mattress. He didn't ask again.I had money left. Not enough for a trip. Not enough for the sun. But enough for the list. I bought a gift for myself. Not on the list. Something I didn't know I wanted. A pair of headphones. The kind that cancel noise. I put them on in my apartment. The city went quiet. The bus went quiet. The hospital went quiet. I sat on my new mattress, with my dry boots by the door, and listened to nothing.I still play sometimes. Once a month. On the nights before my shift. When I can't sleep. When I'm thinking about the list. I Vavada sign up. I deposit twenty dollars. I play the bell game. I lose most of the time. That's fine. That's what I expect. But sometimes I win. Not like that night. Small wins. Fifty dollars. A hundred dollars. I cash out immediately. I use it for the list. A dinner. A book. A movie. Something that isn't rent or groceries or the bus pass.I think about that night sometimes. The dark apartment. The thirty dollars. The list in my phone. I think about the three bells. The bonus round. The numbers that climbed when I wasn't looking. I don't believe in luck. I believe in showing up. In working the twelve-hour shifts. In picking up the overtime. In holding the hands of people who are scared. I believe in being there when the bells line up. In playing the game that looks like something my grandmother would play. In sleeping on a mattress that came in a box. In boots that don't leak. In a coat for my mom.I called her on Christmas. She was wearing the coat. She said it was the nicest thing anyone had ever given her. I said it was nothing. She said it wasn't nothing. She said it was perfect. I sat on my mattress. I looked at my boots by the door. I looked at my list. The list I've been adding to for three years. I added something new. A trip somewhere warm. For my mom and me. Somewhere with sun. Somewhere she can wear her new coat on the plane and then take it off and feel the heat. I don't know when. I don't know how. But it's on the list. And I have time. I have boots that don't leak. I have a mattress that doesn't dip. I have a mother who wears her coat on Christmas and says it's perfect. And I have a game. A game with bells and cherries. A game I play once a month. A game that reminds me that the list isn't just a list. It's a promise. A promise I made to myself. A promise I'm keeping. One spin at a time. One shift at a time. One dry foot at a time.