Grey skies, uneasy hands.

As my breath freezes in mid air, my desire for Christmas begins to grow. The smell of pine, the warmth of a fire, hot chocolate steam tickling my nose, and the smiling familiar faces are just a few things that come to mind. With all these delicious thoughts swirling and bubbling I begin to materialize my Advent calender. Two frosty but welcoming eyes gaze back at me as I color in the wrinkles of joy and wisdom.


I remember one Christmas, the same Christmas I play over and over again in my head, when I was about 6 years old. It was the year we all spent Christmas at the Cabin, my grandpa and ma, dad, aunt and uncle, and my three cousins and I. There was laughter, fights, tears, and unity. And my imagination grew when my grandpa played the role of Old St. Nick. He ate the cookies and left a few crumbs. He took my note and left footprints in the snow. He was a good man. A man that I barely knew, but left such a mark. A World War two veteran, a hard working mechanic that loved old cars. My memories of him are his dirty fingernails after working on cars all day, his strong arms, his playful spirit, his cheese eggs, and his love and admiration for my grandma.

How wonderful memories are.