Mrs. Claus lurked over Nina as she slept, like a crazed stalker, but of course she wasn’t one, she was Mrs. Claus. “But not for much longer,” she smiled as she placed a special stuffed doll in Nina’s bed, a doll that looked suspiciously like her grandmother. Nina immediately cuddled up with it, smiling contently as she held it to her chest. “See you soon sweetheart.”
The next morning Nina woke up and looked at the doll and smiled. She couldn’t quite make the connection that it looked like her dearly loved and departed grandmother, thanks to the magic woven around it, but she knew she loved it. She hopped out of bed and cracked her back, her bones and joints feeling achy. “That’s what happens when you get on in years.”
She dressed quickly and with purpose, more like a 69-year-old than a 9-year-old. She headed down to the kitchen, deciding that she needed to cook breakfast for her dau-mother and father. She walked into the kitche and grabbed the step stool, more as an afterthought then as a conscious decision, and gathered up the ingredients she need to make her famous caramel waffles. “My grandmother’s famous caramel waffles,” Nina laughed shaking her head.
She moved with a practice rhythm in the kitchen, mixing and cooking the batter like it was a beautiful dance. Soon enough she had three plates of waffles with whipped cream and sliced strawberries. Putting some finishing touches out, Nina moved her dark brown hair from her eyes, eyes that had light crow’s feet in their corners. Nina also failed to notice the few strands of grey that were growing form her scalp. “Those lazy heads need to wake up, you just can’t sleep the day away,” Nina commented about her parents.
She headed back upstairs, pausing halfway up when her knees began to ache, “I’ll put some icy hot on these nagging pains later,” she told herself as she began to make her way up again. She opened the door to her parent’s bedroom and yelled for them to wake up. “Let’s go you two! Early bird gets the worm! Breakfast is on the table!” she announced before heading back down stairs to freshly squeeze the orange juice.
“She sounds like your mother,” George, Nina’s father smiled.
“She does,” Annette, her mother agreed. “Wait did she say she made breakfast?”
“Oh boy!” George yelled as the two of them scrambled out of bed, memories of the kitchen fire form the last time Nina tried to cook flashing through their minds. But all they found downstairs was their little 9-year-old girl waiting at the head of the table, like her grandmother used to, waiting for them.
“Ready for breakfast? We’ve got a big day ahead of us!” Nina smiled, light laugh lines etching across her face.
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