The sound of birds chirping garishly outside my window, wakens me from a deep slumber. Opening my eyes, I see the morning sun’s rays illuminating my room. I’m longing for sleep to engulf me back into its warm embrace. My father ruins any hope of going back to sleep as he hollers upstairs that breakfast is ready. Standing up and doing a morning stretch is when I first smell it. The smell is coming from the kitchen. I smell crème cheese Danish. The sensation of Christmas overwhelms me. I’m almost in a daze as I sit back on the bed. Memories of past Christmases flood my thoughts. On Christmas morning, my sister always wakes me up. Her anticipation of the day keeps her from snoozing, so she is always the first to rise. We are not allowed to come downstairs until my parents give us the “ok.” They would give us permission to come downstairs as soon as they were prepared with their recording devices and a cup of coffee. After given the clear, my sister and I would run downstairs to the living room to see what gifts Santa had left us. Our gifts where never wrapped and we each had our own pile. Santa always left my gifts on the right and my sister’s gifts on the left. This past Christmas was the first year that my sister no longer believed in Santa Clause. The magic of Saint Nick was gone. Even though I knew who the gifts where coming from for several years, pretending for my sister kept the magic alive for a little while longer. Once she stopped believing in the mystical character