Family

December 22nd (Friday):

Pancakes:

Batter sizzles on the griddle. The smell spreads through the house, and I carefully flip each pancake onto the other side, smiling when I see the perfectly browned outside.

I repeat the little rhyme my mom taught me:

"Mix a pancake

Stir a pancake

Pop it in the pan

Fry the pancake

Toss the pancake-

Catch it if you can!"

The words bring back memories that steal into my mind and creep into my heart, making me feel warm and fuzzy and nostalgic and sad.

A ghost slips into the kitchen, made of memories and smiles and hope. It's face is my mother's, and I can hear it singing along with me.

I feel its warm hands on my shoulders, guiding me as I finish making the pancakes.

"Thanks, Mom," I whisper before the ghost disappears. I flip the pancakes onto a plate and eat them in the living room, alone but surrounded by spirits.

December 23rd (Saturday):

French Toast:

I carefully soak bread in a mixture of egg, milk, vanilla, and cinnamon, stirring it around until it's soggy all the way through. Sunlight streams through the windows, and the warm, spicy scent of cinnamon fills the air.

I leave the bread in the mixture a moment longer than I have to before cooking them in the pan, remembering my Aunt Mabel's advice:

"Let them get soggy and soaked before you cook them - you don't want dry French toast!"

Her voice in my mind reminds me of travelling and adventure, of her lifting me up on her shoulders so I could reach a tree branch and start climbing, of her laughing as she helped me experiment with recipes and instructions.

A wraith sneaks into the kitchen, made of bravery and excitement and risk. Its heart is full of adventure, just like my Aunt's, and its laughter is the same.

I slide the French toast off the pan and onto my plate and eat them on the porch outside in the sun, alone but surrounded by birdsong and love.

December 24th (Sunday):

Muffins:

I rinse blueberries over the sink before stirring them into my batter. There's flour all over the counter, but I plan on cleaning it up later.

I pour batter into the muffin cups up to the brim, knowing it will rise too much, but remembering my dad's words:

"Better too much than too little, am I right?"

As I wait for them to bake, sitting in front of the oven with my legs tucked under me, a shade wanders into the kitchen, made of kindness and bad jokes and family. The kitchen seems to grow a little warmer, a little more cozy.

When the timer beeps, I hear my dad's voice saying to leave it in a little longer. When I finally take them out, they're perfect: crumbly and golden brown.

I eat them in the dining room and read the newspaper, alone but surrounded by words and wisdom.

December 25th (Christmas!):

Whatever:

I eat my breakfast quickly, surrounded by family and memories. I go to the living room, where the tree I got yesterday is, covered in fairy lights and paper ornaments I made the day before.

Underneath is a single present I made for myself last night. I feel my relatives' eyes on me as I unwrap it and hold it up to the light to see it better. It's a collage of my family, and tears spring to my eyes as I see all of them, connected by paint and glitter and markers.

I hang it up on the wall, next to the three other collages from previous years.

"Thank you," I whisper to them. My heart is warm, and my mind is full of memories, and my tears are from happiness and nostalgia, not sadness.