Eliette Ink

I published a short story called Red Gem in the exposer school newspaper.

           She loved Christmas because of the special smell, the excitement, and the family time that this white holiday brought to the household as a whole.

She was enchanted by the fresh smell of orange zest and pine trees mixed up into a sweet, tangy scent that set the whole family into a joyful mood. She was always captivated by the sight of the children and adults joining together, forming a united group, singing their favorite Christmas songs with loud, clear voices, while she brushed her fingers over the black and white keyboard, from which escaped a lovely melody that filled the whole room and made people jolly. She loved watching her little sister pinch the orange peels until her hands were rosy and covered with zest. She cherished this sour yet sweet aura, the perfume of orange: this fruit, so special during this time of the year.

Christmas was, for her, like a big, white dream covered in cold feathers, which somehow brought a warm feeling to her. Christmas was the exciting secret of the existence (or non-existence) of Santa Claus, this fictional, yet so real character that took a place as big as his belly in the children’s minds. Christmas was the sound of glass dishes piling up in the center of the table, the perfume of butter cookies baking in the oven, and the sight of jovial people singing and screaming, eating and talking, sharing secrets and spending the family time that they have been waiting for during the whole year. Christmas carries no anxiety, no stress, and no fear.

The most important part of this wonderful holiday, however, was, for her, the excitement and impatience of the children as they wait, under their covers, fighting against the urge to fall asleep, thinking hard about the astonishing surprises that Santa would bring to them, fearing the itchy, wool sweater, sewn by Grandma’s life-long friend, that, hence, Granny would make them wear, and remembering all the times of the year when they had been naughty or bad, hoping that Santa would forgive them. She loved staring impatiently into the other children’s eyes as they all waited for the sound of the bell, the crystal-clear ring of the bell, announcing that the gifts were ready and waiting, under the pine tree. Everyone, then, was merry.

For all of these reasons, Christmas was and stayed her favorite holiday, even if, she had to admit, the mysterious secret of Santa Claus was not quite so mysterious to her now. During the school year, from day to day, she waited for that night, when everyone would gather; that night, when children would find oranges in their slippers and stand in awe in front of the big, black footsteps tracing a trail from the chimney to the tree; that night, when the same kids would run to the wooden table to count, out loud, how many of their cookies Santa had eaten and how much milk he had drunk from the glass, when they would laugh, imagining him, all round and fat, trying to slide down the chimneys of San Francisco’s Victorian houses; that night. That night, which was otherwise known to her as the 24^th of December.