It was Christmas morning, but I was not at all anxious to run downstairs and open presents. Looking out of my frosty, fogged up window pane, everything looked normal. The sun was beginning to come up, its light spreading to the far reaches of the city. People were just beginning to wake up from their peaceful night of sleep, ready to spend Christmas day as a family. Parents were probably calling to their children to come downstairs to see what Santa brought. But this was not the case for me. My name wasn’t going to be called nor was I going to rush downstairs to see a big tree with presents underneath. Nothing was ever going to be the same because she was gone. My mother whom I spent thirteen wonderful years with was gone forever. I wouldn’t be able to hear her singsong voice echo throughout the house anymore nor would I see her reading her favorite book, snuggled under the green blanket in the worn out armchair. She was gone, and now only her memories remained.

I wandered aimlessly into the kitchen and ran my small fingers over the smooth granite countertop. It was cold. I shivered, even though I was wearing long pants and two sweaters. The house was quiet. Nothing could be heard except the ticking of the big grandfather clock in the hallway. I sighed as I looked out of the big window above the sink. I saw nothing except for white.

I was five years old and my mother was teaching me how to make her favorite dessert: rice krispy treats. We were wearing matching aprons that were white with little pink hearts which tied in the back with a big bow. Holiday music was playing in the background. The house seemed alive as even the little gingerbread men, freshly decorated, seemed to dance to the beat of the music. A big fire in the fire place crackled and my father sat reading the newspaper in the big arm chair. Everything my mother did in the kitchen, I tried to copy as well. If she accidently spilled some rice krispies on the floor, I also spilled rice krispies on the floor. At the very end, my mother gave me the most important job to do: mix in the marshmallows. I stood on my wooden stool since I wasn’t tall enough to see over the countertop, and mixed in the marshmallows as though my life depended on it. When we were finally done, my mother scooped giant helpings for each of us, including my father who always wandered in at that precise moment when food was being served. The three of us laughed and danced to the music, swirling about the kitchen. No one knew that years later our lives would be drastically different.

I was standing next to the counter with my hands clasped tightly not wanting to let go of this precious memory. I looked at my wooden stool sitting so forlorn in the corner, not having been used for years. Listening to the tick tock of the clock reverberating off the walls, I slowly walked out of the kitchen in search for something, someone. With my father gone on business, and my grandparents oblivious to everything going on around them, I sighed knowing that Christmas was going to be a little different this year. As I reached the kitchen door, I stopped. I turned slowly around as the sweet smell reached my nose. I looked around at the empty kitchen as the smell seemed to get stronger. I smiled, slowly for it seemed as if my mouth had forgotten how to smile. Something inside of me seemed to wake up, and excitement filled within me. My mother was here, she was still with me and nothing was going to make me forget her. Grinning, I grabbed a bowl from the cupboard and a box of rice krispies from the pantry and started mixing.