February 13, 2017


My sisters and I wake up,
and eagerly wake our
groggy parents.
They shuffle out of bed,
insisting on videoing us walking
down the stairs,
a yearly ritual.
We sulk down the stairs,
finding that Santa has come.
He has left wrapped presents,
In exchange for our very unique
cookies and milk.
We open them, some in a flurry,
and others slowly,
hoping for things my parents
would never buy.
When the wrapping paper is ripped to bits,
mixed with snippets of Scotch Tape,
we head upstairs to eat.
My sisters complain about having to wait
for presents,
and my mom lectures about kids who have none.
We consume the egg-flavored quiche,
stuffing our faces with the hope of presents.
We then find ourselves disappointed,
when our parents and grandparents want
to take their time.
We gradually filter into the living room,
which holds our beloved tree.
There are presents overflowing,
spilling out from under the dark depths of the
lit up tree.
We each grab a present,
and hand it to its rightful owner.
We all take turns,
youngest to oldest, or oldest to youngest.
We open slowly,
taking hours upon hours,
filled with shrieks of joy,
and dances of wonder.
This is what Christmas means to me.


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