Christmas was a tradition.
Every year, me, my sisters, my mom and my dad would pile into a car, sometimes with an accompanying dish or two, and make the hour drive to the house on the hill.
It was a mansion. No, more like a castle. With its white stucco exterior and red tile roof,
covered all in ivy, like a wrapped present promising something special.
And it was. It always was.
The place would glow.
A roaring fire in two rooms, and a Christmas tree, decorated to the nines in silver and gold.
Underneath, presents piled up high in shiny paper, beckoning our tiny hands to pry and our gleaming eyes to peek.
But we had to wait until Christmas Morning, when we would wake to the smell of coffee, eggs, bacon and toast. A Christmas feast.
Then, we could open the packages, as we were tucked safely inside the grand old house, the white snow falling
like powder, glittering as it gathered on the pine trees lining the front walk.
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