Unwrapped

Christmas day begins at the stroke of midnight at the Morgan residence. The signal comes from an antique grandfather's clock in the den, a resonating ding-dong that stirs the children from their beds. They haven't been sleeping because they're full of anticipation, ready to tear into gifts large and small.

When they hear clock, it is like a gunshot at a foot face. They storm down the stairs like a pair of elephants, stampeding toward an oasis of gifts under a sparkling tree. There are two of them, ages five and seven, both boys. Their parents watch in good humor, close enough to be part of the festivities, far enough to keep clear of flailing arms and shredded wrapping paper. It is the one night of the year the boys are allowed to be up this late, but it is tradition and they enjoy it.

When the boys are done admiring their new toys, they turn their attention to the pile of wrapping paper in the middle of the living room. They take turns diving into it, wallowing through it like seals in a pool. They have paper ball fights. It is a riotous good time and even their parents join in.

Around 1:30, the boys are tuckered out. The adrenaline of Christmas day wears off and they sleep in the pile of holiday debris as if it was bedding. Their parents carry them to bed and kiss them good night. The boys murmur something intelligible in return and go to sleep, dreaming of their Christmas night.