The Santa Clause Act (Completed)

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            Years ago, there was a time when I actually looked forward to Christmas.

            When I was little, Christmas was something that was greatly sacred. I loved everything- the cookies, the music, the jolly goodness.

            I guess you can say I was just a normal citizen of Tinseltown-absolutely smitten with Christmas.

            I remember sitting near the frozen window on my dad’s lap, singing to jingle bells and having cookie contests with him.

            I remember the snow angels, the snowman’s and the snow fights that always ended with wet underwear; regardless though, what made Christmas truly Christmas was my dad.

            He worked as the manager of the only hardware store in the town so he was always busy, despite that though, my dad was the kind of person who would storm through the house at two in the morning yelling Christmas music to make me wakeup and watch the snowfall.

            For the longest time, I believed that I loved Christmas because of all the cookies and seasonal hype.

            It wasn’t until he died that I realized what I had truly loved amidst Christmas.

            Gone were the early morning sessions sitting by the fire, dunking gingerbread in hot chocolate. Gone were the days spent in a fort of sheets and pillows with candy canes.

            Everything was gone.

            Season after season, the fire still burned bright and the same cookies were still made, but the one thing that wasn’t able to be brought back was the one thing that made Christmas- well, Christmas.

            The cookies no longer tasted the way they used to, the snowman’s and snow angel’s no longer looked the same way and everything I’ve ever felt about Christmas never felt the same after that day.

            Nobody could ever replicate the way my dad made Christmas with his hot chocolate and cookies.

            Not until now at least.

            The second the smell of bitter sweet cocoa and sugared whip cream awaken my senses, there’s no way I can ignore.

            It smelled perfect-it smelled like Christmas in a bottle-the same way my dad used to make it.

            My eyes snap open.

            I stare up at the ceiling, golden light flicker across the white wall. Delicate streams of gold, red and green line the ceiling, paintings of angels and Christmas scenery depicted onto the ceiling.

            I blink.

            This was most definitely not my room because my room had faded glow in the dark stars on the ceiling, not Michelangelo’s replicated paintings of angels and the Christmas story.

            The throbbing sensation in my head hasn’t disappeared and if I strained my eyes hard enough, I could just make sense of my surroundings.

            I look to my left-only able to do the simple action of turning my neck because everything else hurt to much. A massive fire crackles in the fireplace, the smell of musky oak wafting richly into the air.