For one sweet season, he forgets to be a grouch.
THEY SAY CHRISTMAS is for children. It sounds pretty to say it.
Me, I am not so sure. My big brother, Sam, is in his dotage, and I am fairly certain Christmas is for him.
The very young wait and fret, almost twitching, for a single, glittering moment. They tear feverishly into a package it took their grandmother an hour to adorn. They watch their parents untangle miles of lights, gasp and coo when the bulbs blink on, and then are bored stupid within three minutes and go back to playing on their phones. They gnaw the head off a chocolate Rudolph, devour seven sugar-sprinkled cookies and the roof off a gingerbread house, and then begin to jerk and vibrate in such a glucose overdose it’s a wonder they don’t strap on their Guardians of the Galaxy rocket boots and shoot for the moon.
This story is from the December 2017 edition of Southern Living.
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This story is from the December 2017 edition of Southern Living.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.
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