When I was growing up, Christmastime meant sliding on deadman's hill until the sun had long gone to rest and our toes were ice cold. It meant comming home to hot chocolate and cinnamon sticks that we always used as straws. It meant fort building and snow ball throwing with the neighborhood kids, late night drives in the country, listening to christmas music and marvelling at the elaboate lights on passing homes. It meant family gatherings and an abundance of good food! It was waking at four in the morning on Christmas day, exciededly opening up stockings whilst watching snow dogs.
Now I am a guest in your little world, and I get to watch as your life unfolds before you...A haze that washed over the high-pitched screams, laughter and storytelling we all shared. The delicious smell coming the soup your dad was cooking in the kitchen while tiny hands mixed and molded cookie dough .A hurridness to our morning that remained unspoken so it did not ruin the magic being made. Memories of your very first Christmas coming into shape beneath a blurred lense easing into focus. Memories that ring of girlish laughter, shadow puppet shows, dad's soup and messy cookies...memories of the love that is shared among every one present.