winter morning

I felt the light coming in the window before I saw it. The soft, blue-white glow of ambient morning light on snow was sneaking in around the sides of my black-out curtains, but I didn’t mind. I let my eyes open slowly, reveling in the sensation of this particular winter morning. I gently lifted my goose-down comforter from my body and rested it on the bed as I sat up. I stretched silently, and hugged myself. I felt so unbelievably cozy and snug in the knit sweater my husband had given me two years before. It was tradition to sleep in it on Christmas Eve. I slipped my striped stocking feet into my soft, faux-suede slippers that sat beside the bed. They hugged my toes and made me feel infinitely secure. I stood and walked to the window.
Pulling back the shade, I was met by the gorgeous swell of fresh, white snow blanketing the landscape that was once so familiar to me. Everything looked foreign, coated in the frozen blanket of marshmallow fluff. The shape of the deck was indistinct. I could see toys and lawn furniture that hadn’t been brought in before the weather turned polar. I looked across the stretch of our backyard and saw the neighbor’s glowing Christmas lights shining like beacons in the early holiday morning. I took note of how perfectly straight the lights were, and how each bulb was glowing with intensity and warmth, as if they knew how important their role was on this special morn.
Leaving my husband with visions of sugarplums and ATVs, I tip-toed quietly down the stairs, running my finger over the garland that we had woven around the spokes of the handrail. I heard it crunch and crackle quietly under the delicate touch of my outstretched fingers. As I reached the bottom step, I paused and took auditory inventory of my sleeping family. I couldn’t hear any tiny feet running about, so I continued in my silent tradition.
I moved to the living room where the tree stood, silent and stoic, casting its majestic glow over the room and the forbidden, wrapped secrets and gifts that lie beneath it. I found a book of matches in the drawer of one of the end tables, and quietly lit a bayberry candle and a gingerbread spice candle. I watched the little flames dance, melting the fragrant wax. I waited as the aromas began spreading through the room, curling me in the scents of my own childhood and warming my soul. I hugged myself another time and made my way to the kitchen.
I turned the dial on the small radio I kept in the kitchen, and the room was filled with the tiny tinkling of a radio on level 2. The carols were sweet and uplifting. Every note deliberately written to make me feel the light and excitement and magic of the season. I swayed a bit to the “Carol of the Bells” and “What Child Is This” before opening the refrigerator and removing the risen cinnamon rolls I had prepared the night before. I pre-heated the oven and turned on the coffee maker, then I began making cream cheese frosting as quietly as possible.
As the buns baked in the oven, turning golden brown in the heat, and filling the kitchen with the scents of cinnamon and bread, I began to hear the sounds of Christmas morning coming from upstairs. I heard light footsteps, the flush of a toilet, the rushing of water as my children brushed their teeth and washed their hands and faces. I imagined their bright eyes dancing in the mirror as they whispered about everything they hoped to find under the tree.
I could hear them descending the stairs as I filled two mugs of coffee for my husband and me. As I was pouring cream into the sweet, swirling contents of my mug, I felt two tiny arms snake around my waist, hugging me like a scarf. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the sweet sensation of my child’s embrace. I turned in his arms and hugged him back.
“Happy Christmas, mommy,” he whispered into my stomach.
“Happy Christmas, my baby,” I whispered as the house came alive with the spirit of the season.