I’ll wake up this Christmas Eve morning, as I do every year, thinking about my Mom.
It’s been 28 years since our last Christmas together.
Mom loved Christmas. Even though there was never much money, there was always a tree covered with gaudy old bulbs, big red and green lights that we’d had forever.
The old box record-player would be cranking out scratchy renditions of Elvis, Bing, Dean, Sinatra, and Mitch Miller, and the apartment would be filled with what would eventually be a monumentally dry turkey (sorry, Mom), but also the best sage and onion stuffing the world has ever known.
Mingled with the smell of fir tree, and the ever-present aroma of Folgers coffee, it smelled like. . . Christmas.
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