The Last Christmas

By Ripley Vernoy

I counted down the days, wishing and hoping Christmas would come faster. A grin wore my face as the air slowly grew colder one degree at a time, knowing that the day was getting closer evermore. Today was that day, Christmas morning! My smile had not even begun to fade since I awoke at 5 AM that morning. Nothing could beat this feeling; I was pure, innocent, and joyful. As freshly-fallen snow decorated my backyard, I was in awe at its beauty. My tailbone ached as I slouched toward the table, resting my elbow on my raised knee. I observed my four siblings quietly talking amongst each other, huddled together in the opposite corner of the table; even they couldn't muster the oh-so familiar frowns that often characterized teenage faces. I was utterly joyous.

That Christmas was in 2016, the last year my family and I lived in Idaho. The snow was never-ending. It measured at a whopping 6 feet. Unlike most other families, our traditional Christmas festivities began in the early morning rather than later in the night. Ever since I can remember, my mother has always made everything bagel quiche--a recipe she discovered while pregnant with me--that my whole family would scarf down like hungry wolves in the early hours of Christmas morning. The rule was that we had to eat breakfast together, take pictures of my siblings and I in our matching light blue sock monkey pajamas, and then, and only then, could we finally go into the living room and open presents.

My hand moved furiously up and down my arms and legs, working furiously to soothe the itch these blue sock monkey pajamas caused. Only one thing could rain on my Christmas day parade: these damn sock monkey pajamas--the itch was incurable. My mother always wrote me off as a drama queen; the pajamas were “soft as a baby’s bottom,” she lovingly expressed; I have never felt a baby's bottom, but if they feel anything like that, I am never having children. Still, despite my highly vocal complaints every year, I am forced against my will to put them on and undergo this torture. I looked to my left and saw my father doing the same. I smiled internally; at least he had to wear them, too. I felt more content in my agony, knowing I was not alone. As my mother brought out the sleek black pan filled to the brim with a steaming, everything bagel quiche; the smell immediately embraced my senses and my pajama dilemma faded. As the pan was set down in the middle of the table, I reached for the spatula, but my hand was quickly slapped--very aggressively, I might add--by my brother; he shortly stated "Seniority!" as if it was some god-spoken law. Being the youngest sucks. Although I was the last to get my serving, I was the first to finish. I devoured it at a blinding speed; the faster everyone finished, the quicker we could take these stupid pictures and open the presents. I lightly kicked my sister's shin and eyed the living room; she got my point and devoured her last few bites of food, announcing that she and I would be waiting on the staircase and that everyone else should hurry up. They didn't. I sat on the stairwell for what seemed like centuries. Finally, one by one, every sibling began to join, and soon we were taking pictures.

*click* I squinted. *click* My siblings groaned; the sound resembled that of a cow getting branded. *click* "Only a couple more," my mother stated. *click* My heart sped. *click* I wore an oversized grin, hoping that it would somehow speed up the process of these never-ending family photos. *click* Smiling so wide my face ached--at this point, it must have resembled that of the Joker, the D.C. villain's daunting, tormented smile--as I not so patiently awaited my mother's permission to run down the staircase and grab my stocking.*click* "Last one." I'm surprised I didn't scream; wait, no, I did. I released a sound one can only describe as a tortured pig's squeal. The suspense is killing me. "Ok, Ripley… GO!" I rose from the gray carpet-covered steps and rushed down every stair; excitement overtook my body. I scurried onto the wooden floors. Leaping down the hall as fast as my tiny body could carry me, I stepped into the living room and spotted my target, a fuzzy white and red stocking hanging on the wall with blue masking tape stuck to it that read "Ripley" in horrendous handwriting. I snatched it from the wall and dumped its contents onto the floor, digging into the Christmas goodies. This was my moment.

Reminiscing on that last family Christmas in Idaho, I realize that it has been ingrained in my memory; every detail of that day will forever haunt and excite me. It was the last time we had an actual Christmas blizzard, the last Christmas before my siblings graduated, before we moved to Seattle, and it was the last time I truly felt like a child, absorbed in my immaturity and innocence. Everything was so fantastical. The novelty of childhood is something nothing can ever imitate--it is unlike any other feeling--and that Christmas was the last time I truly felt that way. During the years that followed, I wanted nothing more than to grow up, and I tried so hard to catch up with my siblings despite our significant age gap. My childhood peaked during that moment before I began the journey of growing into the person I am today.