China Dolls

Between work and work and work and trying to get some sleep, I was surprised to realize that it is only a week until Christmas - that morning when you woke up when you were little at Nana and Papa's house, snow falling fiercely, the house warm and the water cold, putting on your favorite dress and then layering over it every jacket and coat and glove and mitten and beret you own to brave the walk from the kitchen door to the car, the car to the church entrance.

That morning when you were practically stoned from happiness when you opened all those presents, the confetti and glittering bows falling around your feet like soft and silent rays of sunlight on your favorite day of the year, even though you knew by the shape of this one, the size of that what was in each box or bag or oddly-packaged gift.

That morning when you didn't care what the world had to say about Pollocks being dirty, because any idiot would have eaten that sausage, any fool would have begged for seconds and sat satisfied for the remainder of the afternoon from that meal shared around the table with the huge mirror behind it, so perfect for making faces at the sister sitting next to you without ever turning your head.

That night when you played sharades until you thought you'd puke, you opened presents of sweaters and scarves and bracelets from the aunts, you played Sorry and Scrabble like you'd never have the chance to enjoy either again, you "accidentally" engulfed the marshmallows in the blaze of the fireplace, you listened to the cousins tell weird stories and ever so valiently plunk out the rhythm of The Little Drummer Boy until an older one came along and really played it.

That night when you fell asleep giggling with your sister instead of fighting, dreaming of all the toys you could play with tomorrow, wondering what the doll in your arms was thinking about and if you'd ever actually meet Johnathan Taylor Thomas.

That's what comes to mind when I think of a real Christmas because that's how I grew up to remember it.