Christmas Presents

In this memory, I’m five years old.

On Christmas morning, my brother and I wake up early. In the living room, I can hear my mother working on some tasks. It’s all quiet.

We both jump out of blankets and walk through the open sliding door between the two rooms. My mother is here sitting. But today, neither of us is paying attention to her. Our eyes go straight to the Christmas tree in the corner. Underneath the tree were…a pile of presents covered in shiny wrapping paper.

“Santa Claus!” We both shout as we rush the tree. “He came!”

“He did,” says my mother, watching us with a smile. “That’s because you’ve been good! Good for you.”

She tells me which one is for whom – Santa must have left a message for her – and my brother and I each take a package and rip the paper wrapping.

“My Stallion Rêve!” I cry, holding the box showing the toy I’ve wanted for so long.

“My train!” cries my brother, holding the large metal toy train in his hands.

The rest of the morning is a blur. We are so happy with our dream toys that we keep playing with them and talking about them. Even during the family dinner, we don’t let them go.