Christmas Traditions
A Short by Noah Leinen
I open my eyes on Christmas morning and throw off the covers in excitement. A giddy grin spreads across my face and all I could think was one word — PRESENTS! I leap out of bed with the acrobatic movements I have acquired through years of bed-jumping practice. In a flash, I am out of my bedroom and past my brother’s room (who is assuredly still sleeping), and up the L-shaped stairs. When I reach the 90-degree turn halfway up the steps, I have so much speed (or so little control) that I crash into the wall. A giggle erupts from my belly at my clumsiness. I quickly recover and finish up the stairs. Bursting into the living room, I focus my gaze on the presents underneath the beautiful and heavy-laden Christmas tree — sunlight off of every bulb and the tree glows. Two steps towards my radiant goal, I catch a whiff of cinnamon-spice and caramel drifting from the kitchen — after a wistful glance at the tree, I make a quick detour into the kitchen.
On the countertop, glistens a heaping mass of cinnamon bread and caramel — monkey bread! I quickly grab a fork and butter knife, but before I tear apart the freshly baked dough and make a mess of the entire kitchen, I am stopped by a stern, “Ah! What do you think you’re doing? Here let me help you.” My mom walks over from the dining table that is decorated with Christmas placemats and a poinsettia and cuts a piece of the bread for me. I manage to pour myself a glass of milk, and by the time I finish, she has returned to the table and resumed her novel — on the counter sits a small plate with an excessively large piece of monkey bread. Thrilled, I grab the plate and the small glass of milk and continue my quest.
Upon re-entering the living room, I hear some soft jazz playing in the background. The music comes from a large stereo set in the corner of the room. Next to it, a rocking chair sits, and in it, my father rests with eyes closed, listening to the melodious runs of the reeds accented by the strong horn hits. Every few measures, he taps his foot to the ride cymbal, or he plays a lick on his air-piano.
With breakfast in hand and a satisfied smile on my face, I approach the luminous Christmas tree, not entirely certain why I feel so much joy. I sit down to tear into my sugary treat — the melted caramel and bread go down easy with a large gulp of milk. I ponder this moment. Maybe this feeling of joy comes from waiting for my family to assemble around the tree; maybe this is my Christmas tradition.
