Arms filled with love

Candace A. Rosovsky

Christmas was always my favorite holiday. Going with Dad and the twins to find just the right tree. Folding bright origami birds to hang as ornaments. Making a wreath of holly and fir at Girl Scouts' for our door.

On Christmas Eve the cousins and aunts and uncles would come over first. And then we would all wait for Danny, our grandmother, who always came late, her arms filled with packages for everyone. Usually they weren't all wrapped, and she'd say, "Oh dear, just let me go into the bedroom and finish wrapping these last few things." And of course we'd wait while she finished. Sometimes we'd try and peek. But she wouldn't let us in.

We always shared our home with friends too. Friends who were far away from their families. Once Biju and Kamala, who were from India, came over, and Raul, who worked for Dad but whose family were all in South America, came too. When I was really little it was the fun of having all the people around that I liked the most. As I got older, Christmas became even better because of what I could do for everyone. Sometimes I thought Christmas could make you feel as if you were in love with everyone in the world.

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