Some childhood treasures stay with us not because of what they are, but because of who they connect us to ā the hands that gave them, the memories wrapped around them, the traditions they carried forward.
For me, that treasure was a book: Twas the Night Before Christmas by Clement Moore.
It was a gift from my grandparents, and even now, all these years later, I still cherish it. The cover is worn, the pages softened by time, but every crease feels like a fingerprint of the people who loved me first.
It wasnāt just a book. It was a ritual. A moment of magic. A thread woven through generations.
My grandparents read it. My mother read it. And when it became my turn, I followed the same tradition ā gathering my children close, letting the familiar rhythm of the story fill the room with that unmistakable Christmas warmth. Later, I read it to my grandchildren too, watching their eyes light up the same way mine once did.
That book became a bridge between past and present, a reminder that some traditions donāt fadeā¦ they echo.
What became of it? Itās still with me. Still loved. Still opened every December. Still carrying the voices of those who came before me.
And every time I read it, I feel them ā my grandparents, my mother ā standing quietly in the room, smiling at the legacy they unknowingly created.
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