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which I love in these little glasses. If you've ever had pineapple juice, you'll know that it can be quite addicting. It does not quench a thirst so much as turn it into a raging desire. I would down a glass and look for the pitcher again, but by the time it came back, it was gone, gone, gone. Could we not have bigger glasses?

I think I liked the breakfast more than Christmas Eve dinner. There would be scrambled eggs by the pound, sausages, bacon, slices of buttered toast, and sometimes Grams would even make eggs over easy especially for me. She would not sit until the last, but this time she sat at the head of the table and presided over the craziness and bickering and good natured yelling that is my family. She started it all herself, so she's the one to blame.

But things change, so quickly, they change. The things we love become lost to the paper that the story is written on. It loses its warmth and its touch, embraced now only by the gauzy film of memory.

Grams is dead, and her beautiful house sold. It is no longer in the family, and it kills me that such a large part of my childhood has passed out of my reach. Mama passed away eight years after her daughter and two years after her granddaughter. One night I happened to put my hand on Mama's back and could not believe how bird-like she felt. One sudden move and I thought she may collapse into ash. She is like the times now, a relic of the past that disintegrates with the passing of time.

All the kids are grown, and no one exchanges gifts anymore. Most of the time, the younger kids only want money or gift cards anyway so that they can go out and buy what they want. Where is the grand spectacle in that? Once you hit 18, they don't exchange gifts with you anyway although my Aunt Lynn did get me a book one year, and I was so touched that she thought of me. There is no grandeur about it anymore and only the barest hints of tradition. All things pass, and I know that, but I still remember what it was like when Christmas meant something larger than the sum of its parts.

However, as we all sat around on a newer Christmas Eve, I could hear the faintness of it there. It was there in me and in those who still remember. When it comes down to it, I guess the traditions really don't matter. What you do or where you go or what you eat doesn't really figure into it at all. It is the love that counts. When all is said
and done, it's all about family.

Learn more about this author, Lynda Lampert.
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