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memories
top of the stairs
mom and dad
christmas eve
chum
warmth
sprint
Memories Of My Christmas: How Did Santa Always Get It Right?
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My memories of every Christmas are all the same. They always begin with a converstaion:

"Do you think he came, Aim?" I asked weakly with my hands around my mouth to direct the question only to her.

My sister and I allowed our whispered conversation to grow in volume as our assurance that Mom and Dad were up grew.

She bared her teeth,her head tremoring in a nod. "I think he has come, Chum." She used my childhood nickname that I hope never to outgrow.

Christmas eve was the one day a year that my sister, five years my senior, stayed in my room. Her room was downstairs and Santa might not come if she were up and using the bathroom. Come to think of it, Christmas was the one day a year that she and I were allies for a common cause. We hoped Santa knew that all the other days a year were simply an act to enrage our parents.

"Mom," I coughed into my hand hoping to arouse her. "Dad," was quickly coughed after incase he happened to beup first. The giggles butterflied out of my stomach. What had Santa brought this year? My body shook as if I were wagging my tail.

"I don't know, Dad. Do you think he came?" It was my Mother talking to my father behind their closed bedroom door.

I looked at my sister, my eyebrows propped up by my cheeks. My hands clasped together to anchor the convulsions of excitement.

"Amy! They're up." My feet pounded the floor in preparation for the sprint downstairs.

"Oh, Chum, I am so excited," she echoed my excitement.

Their door opened. Dad in front, rubbing his hands for warmth and to spur our fire with Mom peering over his shoulder happy to see our enthusiasm. This was our cue to enter the shoots and prepare for the gun. We took our positions at the top of the stairs waiting to bereleased onto the track and the winner's circle that held the trophies provided by Santa.

"Now," my Mother said, "Let your Father go down and see if everything is all right before you two go down."

Dad descended the stairs. Could he walk any slower?

"I think he's been here," Dad would say after rounding the bannister and entering the living room.

"Oh, Santa," my Sister and I wailed in unison.

"Okay," Dad would say preparing the start. "You can come down now."

And my sister and I would tear down the stairs to the joys of Christmas.

Thanks for reading.


Street Talk

Pinned it James. I sometimes wish I had had siblings to share those special holidays with. I think it would have been a lot of fun!

Reply
  about 5 years ago

Anyone else have early memories of Christmas to share? Please comment and share my story if it resonates with you. Thanks, J. Pullman

Reply
  about 5 years ago
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