Grandma’s House

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,

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The castle

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.

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From top to bottom: Quincy, now 19, Boston, now 19, and Me, now 18.

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

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My sisters and my Uncle Joe

like powder, glittering as it gathered on the pine trees lining the front walk.

 

Thanks For Reading!

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XOXO -Dellie

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