Gingerbread Hot Cocoa

A tiny, crackling fire clicks awake on the stovetop. The fire reaches up to a silver kettle. The kettle hums. Faint films of vapor climb its outside surface.

The little boy, just taller than the stove and bundled in a blanket, watches without a sound.

When the kettle mutters with gentle bubbles, the boy turns to the side of the stove. He reaches a careful hand up and digs a spoon into a jar of light brown powder, guiding the spoon into the bottom of a ceramic cup. Then another jar, and another.

At the first hint of a whistle, the boy reaches a careful hand again from the blanket. He tilts the shaking kettle until the water falls into his cup.

Sweet, warm smells of gingerbread rise into the air - a spilling cabinet of ginger, sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, cardamom. Just before the next breath, a darker, bitter chocolate smell rises from underneath. Every spice returns to its place.

The kettle returns to the stove, to a lid that was never awake.

Now the boy is busy while the hot cocoa cools from ouch to okay.

He turns off the stove.

He grabs the small empty plate and the small empty cup from the counter. They rattle as he sets them in the bottom of the sink. he holds them still. He takes a towel hanging from the stove handle and lays it out.

The boy washes off the cookie crumbs and the drops of milk. He rinses and scrubs in soap and rinses again. The dishes lay out on the towel. Seasonal dishes go somewhere only an adult knows for sure. They stay put for now.

He pulls open the cupboard next to the stove with the same tentative hand. He pulls out two pairs of scissors.

Next, he opens the cabinet under the sink and digs under the curving pipes for a large black trash bag, one of the industrial sizes that got lost on the way to the garage.

The boy returns back to a sleeping-house.

A dim kitchen light disappears behind him. A glowing tree with shining strings and glass appears in front of him. Endless hallway darkness waits between. The cold night is more patient than a boy.

So the boy wraps himself tighter in his blanket.

He takes slow, shivering steps, one after another. His hand slides along the wall. A careful touch. This sound – any sound – could steal away the light. His other hand grips tight to the cup.

Just as the hallway turns, the boy’s foot slips along the floor. A splash of cocoa stings his hand. He grits his teeth, checking if anything has heard him.

The sleeping-house is quiet.

The last steps lead to a precipice, a single stair between darkness and the tree.

He steels his heart and lands in the wooden living room.

The glowing tree reaches up from the wood floor to the faraway ceiling. Boxes wrapped tight with sharp, straight folds sit stacked under the tree. Paper bags – blue, green, red, brown, purple, white, tissue and cardboard – fill half of the room.

The boy knows he cannot open a single one until the true morning starts. This does not mean he can’t know whose present is whose. He must. He goes to grab a box.

The bulbs of the tree flicker and shut off.

The boy sits, alone in the dark. Alone in the sleeping-house that will not bring back any warm bed now. His legs ache for a wish: move. Get back into the light. Any light.

One minute aches past. Another. Another. Darkness. Cold.

The boy closes his eyes. He grips his mug of cocoa. He makes a wish.

He takes a step. Then again. He opens eyes with a slow expectation of nighttime.

A single bulb clicks awake.

The boy breathes. Colorful boxes become colorful piles. One for mom, one for dad, one each for the brothers. Big presents first, then small presents. A careful shake of each one offers only a clear guess. Obvious books. Obvious gift cards. Obvious socks. When the boy can’t guess, he makes a new pile.

When every present is accounted, still in its careful wrapping and assigned to its still-sleeping person, the boy waits. He huddles in his blanket and sips his cocoa. The adults will come in with hands full of coffee mugs. The light will come back. Soon.