I just cannot shake the feeling. It is impossible to get up and carry on as if today is just an ordinary day. Sprinting through the darkness, I make my way to the loft and find that I am the first one to arrive. This is not a surprise considering that I am the first to arrive every year. I stand for a moment, simply enjoying the peaceful silence. I can see two sets of twinkling lights. The stars outside shine through the frosty windowpane as the bulbs on the tree illuminate the room. A tidal wave of joy rushes from my head to my toes. The merriment of this room cannot be contained. Today this room has transformed. It is not just another part of the house, but a place to give and to love. It is the heart of Christmas.

The rustic CD player in the corner of the room is patiently waiting. I walk over and press play to hear Bing Crosby’s rendition of “White Christmas” drift from the speakers. His perfectly crafted voice announces Christmas to anyone who listens. The music floats over to the tree in the center of the room. Waiting for Crosby’s voice to wake up the family, I gaze up at the tree before me and behold the gleaming ornaments. There are too many to count. Each ornament on the tree tells its own story. The misshaped macaroni ornament from kindergarten served as the first clue to my parents that I would never be an artistically-gifted child. My mother’s favorite ornament is the plastic penguin drinking hot cocoa; it never fails to bring a smile to my face. Dozens of red and white candy canes litter the tree. Other branches display festive, round bulbs with delicate gold trimming. The brilliant star which gleams atop the tree emits a warm glow some might describe as magic.

The carefully wrapped presents lie underneath the tree. Even though they are all different shapes, sizes, and colors, they lie in unison. The area under the tree is like a masterpiece, each package having its own spot and perfectly arranged next to another. Some presents are covered in wrapping adorned with pictures of Santa and his reindeer while others are garbed in elegantly glossy paper. I pick up what seems to be a delicate red box tied up with a single, silver ribbon. The red wrapping screams out for the present to be opened. Shaking it, I listen for clues as to what might be inside of the tiny box. I hear a few rattles, but ultimately my attempt is unsuccessful. I have to wait to find out what mysterious gift lies within the box. The suspense kills me.

I do not have to suffer for long, because soon my senses are carried away to a winter wonderland. I smell a dream like aroma that is strong, yet familiar. Fresh and earthy, the tree’s pleasant odor of pine needles encompasses the room. Old decorations brought down from the attic create a smell reminiscent of years of tradition. My mother has kept all of the Christmas cards our family has received since the 1980’s, and even rusted ornaments from her childhood. Ginger and hazelnut spices also establish their presence in the room. They are left over from a day of baking cookies, pies, and other assorted goodies. I can still taste the sugar on my tongue and feel the gooey chocolate chip cookies melting in my mouth. The pine needles, stuffy decorations, and spices all combine to create a smell that defines Christmas morning. I inhale it deeply, treasuring the comfort that it brings.

The décor of the room is also quite comforting. The beige walls soften the room and transfer feelings of warmth and coziness. In sharp contrast, the festive decorations add a radiant quality. The cherry red Santa hat on the coffee table and the green wreath hanging on the door are symbolic of the holiday. Glitter is strewn everywhere. The names on the stockings are spelled out in glitter. The vase that holds the poinsettia flowers glitters in the light. Some of the tree’s ornaments are even speckled with glitter. I realize that all of the shimmer and shine is iconic, and without it Christmas would not be the same.

I get up and wander across the room to gaze at our family’s collection of Christmas decorations. It is amazing to me how the small trinkets and miniature nativity scenes can hold so much sentimental value. My hand reaches out to a particular object that stands out amongst the rest. I place my hand against the cool glass that has formed a sphere around a wonderful display of bears working in Santa’s workshop. The sphere stands on top of a golden tunnel. I carefully wind up the intricate snow globe, and watch as it immediately comes to life. A miniature train passes through the tunnel as a sweet melody makes its way to my ears. My eyes widen. I am stuck with amazement. This snow globe is not just a toy. It is a mechanism created to free the imagination of even the most practical person. The whistling train and bustling workers tell a story. It reminds me of childhood fantasies such as a ride on the Polar Express or a visit to Santa’s workshop. I vigorously shake the globe, no longer attempting to control my excitement, and watch as the snow falls.

I am suddenly pulled away from the illusion when I hear the voices of my parents. Their laugher echoes through the house as they make their way to the room. I rush over to the entrance of the foyer to greet them. A smile beams across my face as I see that my mother is holding two cups of hot chocolate. I can smell the rich cocoa as she hands a steaming mug to me. The warmth of the drink flows through my entire body as I wrap my hands around the base of the mug. I look up to my father, and he whispers “Merry Christmas, little one.” The sound of his voice is my greatest comfort. As the three of us sit down, I realize that I can finally open that curious little red under the tree. In this moment I am content. My parents’ presence completes the room.