The Little Boy
By: Eric Davenport
The little boy slowly tiptoed up the stairs, his little heart beating faster with every step, his little fingers trembling with every move, tingles of excitement shooting up his little spine the closer he got to the top of the staircase. He held onto the maple railing until he got to the second highest step, where he stopped, and stood still for a split second. He slowly rose to the tips of the tops of his toes, and stretched his neck as far as it would allow so that he could see the scene on the top floor. Everything was still, there was no noise to be heard, save the sounds of mother putting cookies in the oven downstairs. The little boy slowly looked around the warm and spacious room. It would be only tomorrow when his brothers and sisters would play the piano and the saxophone and the trumpet in a melody of calming jazz, while he watched from his nook up above, cozy in a woollen sweater. It would be only tomorrow when mom would lay the feast on the table, and he would, with eyes so round that they outsized his mouth, dig in with astonishing zeal. He looked around, and saw the chairs that dad and uncle would sit on while they conversed in a philosophical discussion. He saw the fireplace, not yet burning, which would warm the extremities and the hearts of their merry company. Finally, he turned his eyes – with fearful anticipation – to the Christmas tree sitting in the corner. It was only tomorrow when that tree would be lit up with an extravaganza of decoration, lights and ornaments and parsley and the tinfoil star at the top. It was however, what was on the top of the tree that intrigued the boy the most. With such anticipation and excitement he felt he might just explode, the little boy imagined all the presents that sat around the tree, so many that one couldn’t see the trunk. It felt like it was an eternity away. So close, but farther than any moment the little boy could imagine.
The little boy didn’t remember at first. He awoke with a feeling of inexplicable joy – an unimaginable sense of happiness abiding in his soul. As he let out a long, satisfying yawn, the little boy looked out the window to see snowflakes illuminated by golden streetlights, as they weaved their way down through the early morning sky and softly settled onto an undisturbed blanket of white. The little boy began to remember. At first, he didn’t believe his own thoughts. It wasn’t possible, was it? He slowly reached his little hand back behind him, and felt his woollen stocking hanging on his bedroom doorknob. His heart skipped a beat when he felt the orange in the toe of his stocking – his soul leapt with joy when he remembered why he was so happy. It was Christmas. The morning had finally come.