It was around 11:30 on Christmas Eve, and I sat by the window, reclining back in Grandpa’s worn-out leather chair. Normally, I would have been asleep at this hour, but not tonight–tonight was too special, for it was Christmas Eve. I stared out the window of the old
house, listening to the house creak and the groan as the gentle storm moved it in its rhythm. The bright full moon reflected off the white blanket that had drifted to the ground, creating a scenery so beautiful that it truly felt like there was magic in the air. Absolutely beautiful.
An hour or two passed before I moved into the guest room, where I was staying, at my grandparents’ house. I tucked into the blankets that were quilted by Grandma years ago, and I tried to fall asleep, but the excitement of the day ahead of me kept me awake.
The next morning, I was awoken by a clatter in the kitchen. I fought hard to stay asleep, but the moment the scent of mom’s cooking hit my nose, I was up in an instant. The air was a symphony of aromas, carrying me back to Grandma’s memory.
Hazily, I walked out of the bedroom and sat in the living room, where my dad, mom, and grandpa greeted me. We all sat down in the breakfast nook and savored my mother’s cooking; recipes passed down from grandma herself. With each flavor hitting my tongue, I could almost see her smile.
After our breakfast, we settled in the living room by the fire. The green tree and its vibrant ornaments of red and yellow gave life to the room as we passed out presents, drank hot chocolate, and flooded the room with laughter and chatter. Looking out at the winter storm that lay on the other side of the glass, I thought to myself: This is what Christmas is supposed to be.
