Scrapbook #7

I was born nine days before Christmas. Maybe that’s why the twinkle of the lights on mama’s tree look just like the shine in my eye whenever the calendar flips over after Thanksgiving. Daddy always said winter was my season, that I blossom. So you can imagine Christmas morning- us three siblings cross legged around the tree, picking out who got the most gifts while crisping bacon smells up the house, me in full bloom. There’s something magical about how the home comes alive when the world finally closes shop. And as sacred as the family isolation is, my Christmas was never complete without that moment when the festivity settled enough for you to light up my phone, from where ever you are, wishing me a Merry Christmas.

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