Seven years old, wide blue eyes, a mop of curly hair atop a face that's a perfect blend of mother and father, and a pitted black olive stuck on the end of every finger as she runs around the dining room table, all squeals and roars and laughter; she wouldn't trade these dinners for all the candlelight and quiet the world has to offer.
She's done considerably better putting up with the damnable loop of the same carols and songs this year, but this doesn't keep her from singing banning them from her iPod and stubbornly singing Spanish lullabys and "Rainbow Connection" to Irina at night in place of another rendition of "Joy to the World" or "Feliz Navidad".
Intellectually, she knew that Irina was no more aware of the soft lights and twinkling ornaments beside them than she was of anything that wasn't her bottle and maybe their faces, but that didn't keep her from rocking her to sleep next to it every night, hoping to imprint some sliver of memory of her very first Christmas into her developing mind.
- Style: Neutral Good for Practicality by
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