I am a tiny ball of fabric as I eagerly run ahead of my parents towards the aging house. The puffy clothing I have been bundled into shields me from the frost in the air, so it can only sting my nose and cheeks. But even the heavy outfit that has swallowed me up does not hinder me as I bounce along the driveway in excitement. I am hopping up and down on my toes as I wait for my parents to catch up and open the cumbersome door whose handle I am still unable to reach. Once I step through doorway the warmth of the home melts the biting cold away, heat soothing the icy burns on my face. I shed my coat and hurry to find the source of the warmth at the main room of the house.

Although it is the largest room in the house, it is not necessarily big. It is a cramped, tiled kitchen with a carpeted open area, easily half the size of an average living room. Yet still more and more people gather into the room, all squeezing past each other in a haze of polite greetings and friendly chatter. There is movement everywhere, constant and erratic. Some people just arriving try to fit into the already overflowing room while others continue to bustle about the kitchen, attempting to cook, talk, and greet everyone all at once. I feel somewhat lonely amongst the loud vibrations of voices and overpowering scent of too many foods, sweet and spicy and salty all mixed together. I can’t help but begin to wish there were more children here as I gaze up at the towering faces above me, but I know I will be the only one to arrive.
I slide across the mustard yellow carpet towards a small table with only three chairs. Each one is mismatched and has its own cushion tied to the bottom that always tends to come loose. The table itself has an embroidered cloth covering the top with what I can only assume to be millions of little patterns, for there is no way I could count them all. The fabric itself looks rough and uncomfortable, but it is impossible to tell with the clear plastic covering that was placed over it to protect the red and purple designs. However, the translucent armor has blurred the abstract pictures, dissolving blooming flowers and leaves into a mess of swirls and geometric shapes. The plastic feels not only smooth, but soft, and I begin to wonder if the heat from the kitchen is melting it away.

Just beyond the table I sit at is an arrangement of furniture tucked into a corner. The dark, creaking rocking chair with the forest green cushioning is perpetually inhabited by my great grandfather. He rocks back and forth with slow, deliberating movements as though to make the soft screech of the chair just loud enough to be heard over the uproar of the rest of the room. Next to him is a bookshelf decorated in old, mysterious books with yellowing pages. Between the length of the books and the language adorning the pages I know I could never hope to read them. Their complex, unintelligible stories are hidden behind a delicate little table with nothing but crisscrossing legs to hold it up. It is the same dark and shiny wood of the rocking chair, but it manages to look older with its tiny scratches on various edges, adding to the illusion that it will topple at any moment. A thin, velvety cloth is laid on it, a slightly more faded green than that of the cushion. The border of the cloth has been cut into menacing spikes despite its downy texture. Perched on top is a fragile tea set inlaid with vibrant flower designs. The colors pop and scream, age having somehow made them brighter while causing the white of the porcelain to dull. There is never any dust on the set, but it is always in the same uniform position as though to move even a single piece would set the whole thing off balance. It sits like time has stopped completely in that one small corner, a void space surrounded by movement. I wish I could play with it, the most beautiful toy in the room, but I know that to break it from its petrified state would shatter the illusion and I would no longer want to play with it.

To the left of the shadowed corner the entire middle of the far wall is taken up by a sliding glass door, almost completely invisible except for the tiny buds of frost that give it a soft outline. Beyond the door I can see the gardens that I often play in during summer. I know that I won’t be able to see any snowflakes falling, but I can see little beads of ice on the rigid, frozen dirt pathways laced between the flowers and trees. Most have already succumbed to the cold and shriveled away in the dark winter, but some still cling to life. Their leaves gently crumple and fall to the ground with a wispy sigh, only slightly scattering the frigid crystals they land on. I am glad to be inside where the coldest spot is the lonely fireplace nestled into the brick framework of the opposite wall. The unnecessary chain fence in front of it is rusting away from disuse and inside there are still remnants of soft black ashes that most likely should have been swept up years ago. Unlike the tea set, whose stillness was akin to a gorgeous China doll, the fireplace only grows in sorrow with each year that passes.

However, even its silent melancholy cannot disrupt the excited fervor which has everyone talking away, leaving a constant hum of incoherent voices playing in the background of every conversation. I make my way towards the other end of the room where the kitchen lies, swerving around clusters of people and ducking between legs until I reach the breakfast bar. I clamber up onto an impossibly tall stool and still have to sit on my knees to reach the table. I look out onto the endless buffet of food coloring the plain beige of the plaster it is set on. Every smell hits me at once. Chocolate slowly melting onto baked pastries, sticky acidic fruits, thick gravy sprinkled with heavy spices, fluffy bread slowly soaking through with rich butter. There are almost as many different scents and tastes as there are people in the room, and it is just as easy to get lost in them.
But even amongst the sea of foods so erratically placed together I am able to spot my prey. A green tin adorned with dancing pictures of reindeer and snow, thinly trimmed with gold. I reach out for the metal and find it is surprisingly cold despite the surrounding foods forming a cloud of burning steam. I slide off the cover with chubby fingers to find the outer gold trim folding into the inside and flooding the entire tin in a honey-like hue. Buried in the golden glow are tiny cookies that I am not yet big enough to consider bit sized. Each one is different, from the chocolate coated squares to the swirled rings of green and pink, to the plain circles with tiny painted murals. I pick up a pink textured pastry, its bumps mimicking the shape of whipped cream. Its only décor are three large mercury colored sprinkles. I take a bite and the thin outer layer makes a slight crunch while the inside takes on a more cake-like texture. It is an awkward hybrid of chewy and crumbly and the silver sprinkles are harder than jawbreakers, but it has all been washed in the sweetness of sugar and vanilla.
My lovely golden tin is pushed away from my before I can reach for another saccharine dessert. I find myself being lifted up and set back down in my great grandmother’s lap. Her face crinkles into a smile as she holds out an old picture book in front of me. Its pages smell dusty and the colors have faded since the time she used to read it to my grandmother, but I become entranced in the silly story as she begins to read it. Her voice is raspy as she whispers the words, her breath coated in the alien scent of wine. I begin to feel sleepy surrounded by the warmth of the house and close my eyes while listening to the hushed story and the murmurs of voices in the background.

I love this home, with my entire family crowding inside and eating and laughing. I will always be happy, because it will always be here. My great grandparents will always let us into this warm home and whisper stories to me while the other adults converse. The sad fireplace will always be here, hoping that someday we will need it again. I will always come back every year to find that precious green and gold tin that holds my favorite sweets I know only my great grandmother can make.

And I will never find myself wishing they would come back home. I will never find myself spending a winter day next to a drooping fake tree on chilled tile. I will never have to watch as my family drifts apart like children’s balloons severed from their strings or listen to the quiet crying of my mom as she prays we’ll have another chance to see them. Because we will always be here, in this warm home. This home with its tea sets and gardens and desserts, with family and stories and silver and gold.

This warm home that no longer exists.