December’s Writing of the Month comes from Viviana Hanley of Attleboro, Massachusetts. Viviana is a 2011 Writing Portfolio Silver Medalist.

I awake easily, sliding out of sleep as simply as shrugging off a comfortable sweater. The date is December 25, 1999, and, being a small child of six, sleep never truly claimed me last night. Too much anticipation along with too many Christmas Eve cookies prevented any real rest. Despite the lack of sleep I bound out of bed, alert and excited even though the time is just past seven in the morning.

The air is sharp and flavorful, sprinkled with the fresh smell of pine. It mingles with the crisp winter air to create a familiar aroma. If Christmas has a smell it is surely that of pine and sugar cookies and warm ginger-scented candles. My bare feet touch down on the cool floor, sending shivers up my legs. I pause a moment, drinking in the silence that cloaks the house, giving it an unmistakable hint of the unknown, as though it contains a great secret.

Thoughts of chocolates and presents pervade my peaceful reverie, and, breaking the beautiful spell, I leap onto the bed of my sister and proceed to jump energetically around her until she is also awake and alert. Her anger at me for shattering her slumber melts quickly into excitement, for she too is still young and not immune to the joy of Christmas morning.

Together we tip-toe down the hall, rousing my younger brother and two-year old sister along the way. The darkness of the hallway is broken by the soft warm glow of the Christmas lights wound haphazardly along the banister of the stairs. They mischievously wind in and out of fake pine needles and crystal fruits, scattering playful beams of golden light all the way down to the landing. Tied up by ribbons our stockings hang, bulging with goodies and scrumptious treats.

Resisting the temptation to dive into them immediately, we slip into my parents’ room. Blind to their exhaustion, we shake them awake and beckon them to come out and share in the blissful perfection of the winter morning. They submit without further prodding, enveloping our little hands in theirs and descending the resplendent staircase with slipper-padded steps.

We investigate the stockings thoroughly, my hands delving deep inside the soft velvet fabric, encountering crisp crinkled wrappers and boxes of sweets. My smile widens as I uncover the many treats Santa has brought this year. Around me my siblings unearth similar goodies, and soon the crackling of foil wrappers mingles with the smacking of lips devouring chocolate, our preferred Christmas breakfast.

Finished with the treats we bound into the family room. By now the sun is playing off the pure white snow just visible out of the frosty window, creating a blinding brightness. It dances on the foil-wrapped packages the litter the floor and the result is so magical it could be no less than the work of Santa Claus. The scene is completed by the grandiose tree nestled in the corner of the room. Shimmering baubles and gleaming glass icicles adorn its branches along with small pinpricks of light.

Wasting no time, my siblings and I grope under the prickly limbs for the packages with our names. Each newly identified present warrants a small squeal of delight. In a flurry of ribbons and tissue paper, the handsome gifts yield their surprises. Wishing to capture this moment of simple happiness, my mother deftly pulls out her camera and snaps an unnoticed picture.

Ten years later I brush my fingers over the glossy surface of the photograph. The moment is frozen forever, a small piece of happiness contained on a small piece of paper. I examine the beautiful scene, the look of joy on each person’s face, and smile at the memory of Christmas through a child’s eyes.