The Angelic Voice.

Christmas eve.

The fragrant Christmas smell, the faded music in the background. As I slowly make my way up the stairs. Before making my way into the kitchen where you hum to the nostalgic music, the foyer. As I place my hand on the cold see through glass of the front door, I look outside to nothing but white, fuzzy snow, I remember. Years ago, coming in from the chilly, quiet blizzard. You would have hot cocoa ready and you would place your hands on my bright red checks. All the warmth that your hands held. One of the most unbelievable, safest feelings in the world. Unexpectedly, you call me from the kitchen. “Muneca?” You and Papa would always say that perfectly.

Like it was heaven.

As I make my way into the kitchen, you finish mixing the food on the stove. For every Christmas while you cook, you always wear a colorful darkish green shirt. Your hair would be short, light blonde, and beautiful. You always wore an apron and you had such an angelic voice as you sang. Even a hum.

Suddenly, you reach your hand out for mine. I smile, and take your hand and you would dance with me around the kitchen. Spinning me and singing to me. My heart felt full and my life felt fulfilled, even if I was only young. As you continue to lightly sing and cook, I would stare at the fruit tree. The beauty of the golden, brightly shining lights would put me into a state of contentedness and joyful pureness. I look over at you and you ask me if I want to help cook, and believe me, I would sill do it without a doubt.

At the time, I didn’t know what it meant,

but you were my best friend.

Ever since I could remember.