My first memories of Christmas are its smells. I’m getting a whiff of peppermint. And why is there a pine tree in the middle of the living room? Not that I mind. Quite the opposite. The cat likes to curl up under the blinking lights that excite all of us, even if they do make the black-and-white TV screen go fuzzy at irritatingly predictable intervals. It’s worth it.

And the music is strangely familiar. I recognize that melody. They play it when it gets cold outside.

It’s not just the tree in the living room and the inspired music. There are stories and movies that disappeared eleven months ago that show up like they never left. The mood of everyone around is building to a crescendo. Then the night comes.

Santa Claus can’t come until you’re in bed. It’s as simple as that. For one night each year, Mom and Dad can cuddle up on the couch, have a cocktail, and watch the tree and Johnny Carson while faint memories of their childhoods on a farm in Massachusetts or the streets of New York waft through their subconscious.

Who can sleep? You might drift off for an hour or two before coming to your senses. Then, around 4:00, you give up hope of sleep. It’s your first experience of insomnia. Your brother can’t sleep either so you talk about  what presents you might get and how long it will be before Mom and Dad wake up.

Your attempts to wake them are met with “Go back to bed.” But you can’t go back to bed. That would be admitting defeat. So you sit on the top stair, looking down into your living room, peering at the corners of the magic of Christmas morning.