The world looks brand new. Early, early mornings turning to each other, smiling, squeezing each other’s hands under the blankets. When I was little every Christmas morning my parents would put a small gift and a chocolate santa in a stocking hanging on my door. I remember waiting, awake of course, for the sound of footsteps, the familiar creek of the stairs as someone tries to walk quietly up them, the rustling of paper outside my bedroom door. The fluttering excitement in the pit of my stomach, Christmas morning, a whole day ahead of me getting to dress up and be around family. The smell of coffee brewing downstairs and my parents setting up a special breakfast with candles and rye bread filled with raisins. I remember the milk cartons had red snowflakes on them during the holidays. Every morning feels like that now. We were given a tiny gift, and the world looks brand new.