This story was inspired by an application question asking what my magical object was. Not sure what to write, I searched my room for an object, when I remembered the Christmas I spent in Indiana.
My two brothers and I grew up in the city. Despite our slightly large apartment, from the time we were babies to when we were in our teens, we all shared a room and everything else. When we were little, we also shared the same imagination and believed in everything, from magical beings that came overnight—like Santa or the Tooth Fairy—to silly fairy tales. Each holiday added another being to our list.
My favorite was Christmas. Weeks before, the cold air would taste like mint and everything would feel lighter when my family and I walked around a city wrapped in lights and red bows. It was impossible to forget the magical day was near.
The winter I was seven, my family decided to drive from our New York City home to spend Christmas in Indiana. My mom had grown up there, but we rarely went back.
The house had belonged to my mom’s grandparents, but once they died, it remained empty until my uncle moved in. On the drive there, I did not remember what the house looked like since I had not been there in a long time. While the car passed flat roads, malls, and cornfields, I drew pictures of what I imagined the house might look like. When we finally arrived, it was even bigger and more beautiful. My brothers and I, happy to stand again after the long car ride, could not believe our eyes. Inside was even better. The smell of food filled the house, and Christmas music played softly as we all greeted one another. Everything about it was magical, like every movie and children’s book was about this house. Snow grew feet from the ground, and there were enough bedrooms for the three of us to have our own rooms.
My brothers and I lived out a fairy tale for the days before and after Christmas, pretending the giant house belonged to us, pretending that we were royalty. On Christmas Eve, we were all ready for bed just as the sun dipped down into darkness. We put out cookies and milk for Santa, and we watched cartoons until we were forced upstairs to sleep. I lay wide awake in the giant bed alone in the room, looking out at the sky. I fell asleep watching the stars twinkle, shutting my eyes to hold all the excitement.
When I awoke, snow had fallen on the long tree branches and the ground was covered in a white blanket. The sun had barely risen and peeked through the skeleton trees that sparkled from the ice. Without another second, I threw the heavy itchy blankets off me, jumped out of bed, and tiptoed to my brother Nigel’s room across the hall. I opened the door slowly and walked over to the bed and whispered in his ear, “It’s Christmas.” His eyes seemed to shoot open, and soon we were both wide awake, tiptoeing to see what had been left under the tree.
When we got to the stairs, we both stood there for a moment, afraid to see what might be. And then we ran. Down the stairs as our tiny feet made pattering noises against the carpet. And there was the tree, glowing in the center of the room, and underneath, packs of presents. I don’t remember what we got—I don’t think it matters. I remember only the magic that was in that house.
A few years after that Christmas, my family sold the house. I can no longer return, but it will forever be the most magical place in my memories.