Every Christmas, I woke up to the smell of cinnamon rolls. Every year, without fail, I would run downstairs to see a bounty of presents, and a tray piled and stacked with more cinnamon rolls that I could ever hope to eat. My dad would be making his ceremonious batch of coffee for himself and my mom, and my sister and I would eat as fast as we possibly could, as if our presents would disappear from under the tree if we did not open them fast enough.  

During the holiday season, my house was always full of festivity. My mom and I made gingerbread men, and our tree was big and bright. There was a warm joy that lingered through the rooms, and always something baking in the oven.  

As my age increased, the number on the thermostat decreased. It was a weird thing to notice– but it was the first sign I saw. Over the years, it got colder. When I was 8, it was Christmas eve, and I was shivering. I turned the temperature up to what I thought was a more reasonable temperature, and it was much more comfortable. 

When I woke up in the morning, there was yelling. My dad was yelling at my mom for being selfish. About how that after they spent too much on Christmas, she was still overspending. My mom was yelling back about how she didn’t touch the thermostat.  

I went back to my bed and stared at my ceiling until the screaming stopped. When I went downstairs, I saw my dad making one cup of coffee, and I couldn’t find my mom. I asked my dad if I could wake my sister up so we could open presents, and he told me that he didn’t care. 

The years after that were colder and colder. Some years, it looked like it would warm up again. But eventually, it got too cold to feel, and December became a month of numbness and forgotten memories.  

But every Christmas eve, even if it is stupid, I close my eyes with the hope of waking up to the smell of cinnamon.