Bing's Voice

Sharp-edged snowflakes fell softly beyond the cold glass

of my bedroom windows. The sunlight’s warmth failed to

heat the blood poorly circulating throughout my ten toes.

Yet the house sizzled with hot breakfast, incentivising

my bones to leave the comfort of my body pillows.

I met my younger sister at the top of the staircase,

and for a brief moment we embraced while quietly

listening to the slow crackle of the living room’s

fireplace. Father’s voice matched Bing Crosby’s

word for word, while together, he and mother

cooked, baked, poured and stirred. Racing

safely down the stairs, we stood in awe at

the spread of presents stacked across the

floor and on the chairs. The glass of milk

was empty and only a single cookie

remained on the plate. We hastily

consumed our breakfast because

unwrapping was only allowed

after we all ate. With our bellies

stuffed with food, our hearts were

quickly filled with love. It was

another perfect Christmas morning -

a memory impossible to get rid of.