Remind yourself of the memories tucked inside your head
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| Christmas |
| It's five o'clock Christmas morning. I am six years old, and my brother is three. We are whispering back and forth to each other about what might be waiting out in the family room for us, and we are trying desperately to stay in bed for at least another hour. We have already been to our parents' room once. |
| "Go back to sleep," my mother whispered. |
| "Listen to your mother," my father said. |
| My brother is sure that he heard Santa's reindeer land on the roof.In my memory, this is Christmas. The anticipation of children waiting to be set free from their beds by sleepy parents so they can see what Santa brought them. My brother sneaking in and out of our bedroom, getting closer and closer to his goal each time. |
| "He ate the cookies!" he reports. |
| Making cookies for Santa was part of the build up, and every year there was a question as to whether or not he had actually been down our chimney. It wasn't the extra presents that sealed the deal. It was the cookie crumbs left on the plate by the fireplace and the empty glass of milk. Once we had determined that the cookies were gone, there was no turning back. |
| There is a soft knock at the door. My brother flings it open and flies past my mother who is standing in the hallway in her blue terrycloth robe. I hug my mom and follow him. The tree lights glow red, green, and blue. |
| The angel made from my mother's wedding dress material looks down on us from her perch on the top of the tree.I can smell coffee brewing as I separate the presents.My brother plays with a plastic robot. |
| It is Christmas morning. |
| What is your family's special tradition? |
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