Christmas morning

I woke up early. Not like when I was little and got up at the crack of dawn and had to wait (per parental rules) until 7 a.m. to wake everyone for present-opening. I didn't mean to wake up early, but someone texted me, and my phone chimed, and I did.

The temperature on the thermostat in my bedroom was 60; I shivered as I rolled out of my warm covers. I came into the kitchen, poured a bowl of cereal, looked out the window. The sky is perfectly clear. A plane is streaking one thin white line across it, from right to left in a straight, horizontal projection from my vantage point. Above it, the sky is blue; below, a warm yellow-orange emanates from behind the dark roof of a neighbor's house. When I stand up, I can see the east bay hills, blue in the backlighting of the rising sun. The crisp wavering edge of their ridge reminds me of real mountains seen from a great distance, like in the Southwest. This is not what I think of when I picture Christmas morning.

I picture dry brown leaves spread all over a still-green lawn; we haven't felt like raking over the holidays. I picture the lawn because I can't see much of the sky from our front windows (where I sit impatiently by the tree, rearranging gifts by recipient and sometimes shaking them), Atlanta having such a long growing season that trees rise high behind all the houses, their branches filling the view. Mostly I picture the living room, with its plush white carpet that I sit on, leaning my back against the piano seat and watching the tree as though it is doing something. I have already plugged in the lights; it was the first task of the morning. When Mom gets up, she will think starting the coffee comes first. Dad will make sure all signs of the Santa for whom I left cookies are gone, and both will stay in the kitchen while I read the letter Santa left me in thanks. I will not realize this letter is in Mom's handwriting for years. I will love it for years.

When my brother finally gets up and everyone comes together by the tree, we will open all the gifts in an orderly fashion, me directing a present to each person in sequence, then issuing another round, until I sit amidst a sea of wrapping paper and bows and four tidy piles of treasures. A cat or two might look on quietly. Eventually, the dog will be allowed in the room, and she will make a royal mess of any remaining paper.

Later, the best part of the day will come. Once the sun goes down, I will turn out all the lamps in the living room and plug back in the tree. It will cast red, green, and blue fir-branch shadows onto the pale lavendar walls. It will sparkle with color. I will sit on the sofa, legs curled under me, and watch quietly for what seems to Mom a very long time for doing nothing. When I have taken it in long enough, I will sit beside the tree and play Christmas songs on the piano. I read the music with only the colorful light of the tree to illuminate it, and no one is in the room with me but I'm sure they are listening (and perhaps wishing I would get a new repertoire). To little me, this was the best part of Christmas. The making of music, the admiration of beauty, the joyful lights in the dark.