innocenceunjust

With every perfectly wrapped gift under our tree the reminders tally up against me and the ghost of Christmas future is there to promise that never again will my mother wake me up more excited for Christmas then anyone else, nor will there be warm biscuit sandwiches waiting for us as we shred threw the loosely wrapped gifts. In those moments we are children again, loud, exited beautiful children. I remember these times as I sit on our neatly made guest bed wrapping and addressing presents to my nieces and nephew my lips are dry in the cool air. I know they’ve already forgotten my mom their emotions are fleeting with flexible hearts it is however the one thing I am envious of; their ability to not suffer. I consume this idea while forcing back tears to address one pack to myself from my parents.