I’ll Be Home For Christmas

Owen woke to the absence of the birds singing outside his window; their usual serenade was silent, no sound penetrated through the window or the cold, snow covered air outside.  A slight chill tickled at his nose, making him shift uncomfortably. He brought a hand to the window, laced with an icy chill that pierced his skin to the bone, marking his skin an angry red. 

It was such a curious feeling, to feel cold. He had no idea when he had last felt cold but something told him a long time. 

He sat up in his bed, the sheets unusually warm and soft to the touch; the comforter plush and thick. 

Owen breathed the chilly air into his lungs, and he noted it was tainted with a sweet smell wafting through the crack of his door. 

He sniffed again. 

It was the achingly familiar scent overlapped with tangy cinnamon, saccharine sugar, fresh and crisp fruit. 

Apple pie. 

It smelled exactly like his mother used to make for him when he was a kid, living in this tiny log cabin out in the snow. 

Owen had left the moment he was old enough. Thinking back he wasn’t too sure why he had. 

Maybe it was just because this tiny log cabin, the place where he had grown up, had grown all his memories, had eventually gotten to him. It started to feel claustrophobic.

Yet now he was back. Back in his childhood abode. The achingly familiar sense of home coming over him for the first time in years. 

He slipped out of bed, the carpeted floor soft and tickling against his feet. 

When he opened his door fully, a cacophony of scents wafted up to him. 

The sharp smell of pine, strong yet somehow warm and refreshing at the same time. 

Or peppermint and cinnamon, spicy and sweet, his mouth watering for a taste. 

Even orange, the scent tangy and tart.

But all of it was pulled together with a faint hint of clove–warm–reminding Owen of the times he would make gingerbread men with his mother in the tiny kitchen of this even tinier log cabin. 

He made his way down the hall, the smells becoming stronger, the air around his skin warmer, trapping him in a familiar blanket that he refused to fight to get out of. 

“Darling,” his mother’s voice: soft and sweet, a gentle melody thrumming in Owen’s ears, came drifting from the kitchen. “You’re awake. I was going to ask if you’d like to help me with the cookies.” 

If anyone else had asked Owen that same thing a few weeks ago he wouldn’t think twice before declining the offer. He was twenty-six, he shouldn’t be making cookies at home. But now, with this small house encasing him, filling his mind with the bittersweet memories of the past, he found it hard to refuse. 

His mother suddenly brought out a bag and poured out its contents. 

The smell: a vibrantly nutty scent of malt and sugar, binded together with a hint of cream and roasted coffee. 

Chocolate. 

“Yes, of course,” Owen answered, his lips tilting up at the ends in a nostalgic smile. 

“We’ve missed you, you know.” Owen’s mother continued, a sad look on her face, creasing her usually gentle features in a sorrowful expression. “When was the last time you visited?” 

Owen joined his mother in the kitchen, embracing her in a warm hug, filling him up and melting his heart like butter. It felt nice to feel the warmth of his mother’s hugs again, they too, like everything else, had been erased from Owen’s life for a while.

“I know, I’m sorry,” He knew he was apologizing not only to his mother but to himself. 

His mother broke free and dusted her hands off on her apron, walking over to the stove to a big, silver pot. She opened the lid and the familiar smell of hot chocolate danced around Owen, planting itself in his sweater, his hair, forever tainting him in the smell of home. 

“Here,” his mother handed him a mug, warm to the touch, soothing Owen’s chilled fingertips. 

Owen brought the rim to his lips, the hot liquid singing his tongue and his throat as he swallowed. 

His mother’s hot chocolate wasn’t like any other. It was special, spiced with star anise, cinnamon and brown sugar. It was magically topped off with gently roasted marshmallows, soft and chewy. 

Owen finished off another gulp, not realizing how much he had craved the familiar taste. 

A timer rang and Owen’s mother ran to get it, opening the oven and taking out a tray of a steaming hot batch of sugar cookies, smelling of vanilla and butter. 

“Would you mind mixing in the chocolate chips to the cookie batter, love?” Owen’s mother questioned as she lay the tray down on the kitchen island. 

“Not at all,” Owen replied, measuring out an even cup of chips, rustling in the hollowed out piece of plastic he held in his hand.

Throwing them into the bowl, he folded them in, a sweet aroma of vanilla and starchy flour wafting up his nose, prompting him to spread his lips in a grin. 

Once the cookies were in the oven he got to work, his hands moving in a familiar rhythm as he baked and cooked the classic staples he had as a young kid, here, in his little log cabin during the holidays. 

His mother played Christmas songs as they worked, creating dish upon dish for that night, a special night that Owen had longed to experience for a while. 

The gentle beat of “I’ll be Home for Christmas” filled Owen’s ears as he ironically worked on his favorite dish of them all: Christmas pudding. 

He mixed in the currants and raisins, the brandy and sharp spices. He finished it off, tying it up to put in the pot to steam it for the next few hours. 

Owen and his mother were done in the afternoon, both still feeling the Christmas joy after all the tireless hours in the kitchen. Cooking never felt boring when you had someone to share it with because Owen had his mother and his mother had him. 

Later that night when Owen sat down at the dinner table, the flashing lights of the tree encapsulating the room in a warm feeling, the cheery songs playing in the background as the table was set. 

Candles were placed in the middle, the flames it seemed were dancing along to the beat of the music. 

The table was set, a vast array of dishes placed in the middle, the smells of honey glazed ham, a mouthwatering mix of savory and sweet. Or a remarkable piece of beef wellington, warm steam arising from the crunchy pastry obscuring the succulent meat hidden underneath. 

Owen’s family dug in, and Owen savored the different flavors melting on his tongue, soft, sweet and savory, followed with an overwhelming feel of nostalgia as Owen thought back into his childhood, the Christmas days he spent in this little home, decorating trees, sneaking candies and sweets from the jars around the kitchen. The days he spent outside, building snow forts and snowmen, snow angels and engaging in snow fights.

 Or the days he sat inside, by the warm and toasty fire warming his winter-chilled skin, sipping on his mom’s famous hot chocolate accompanied with soft and gooey chocolate chip cookies. 

And Owen realized that this house was never worth leaving behind. The smells, the memories, the laughs and sad days he spent here; out in the woods or tucked into a blanket.

The night ended as quickly as it had started and as Owen layed in bed that night, staring out at the stars speckled across the night sky, a single thought crossed his mind: 

How good it felt to be home.