Descriptive Essay On A Christmas Walker

- During: The wax began dripping down the sides of the candle once the wick was lighted. The flame was blue at the bottom and ombred up to yellow at the top of the flame. The flame was jumpy and not steady.

The heat was overwhelming, the smell of pine and juniper was burning my nose and making my eyes water. The mist coming off of the glowing

she quickly ordered as she ushered lily and I out of the kitchen. The rest of the night mostly involved small talk and board games. After dinner and dessert we had moved to the presents, Lily was bouncing on her heels as if she were a dog begging for scraps. Her mother picked one of the presents off the top of the pile; Lily dug into the present like a rabid beast.

The Next day, we went down stairs to see our gifts. But when we sew the tree their wor few gifts that santa had left. Then, from the dining room we heard “HO HO HO” as santa walked in to give us the rest of our gifts.

Right now, she is trying to soothe the kids. She does this every night, and every night, the children go to bed with the promise that tomorrow would be a better day. I can hear her walk back into the room, but my eyes remain fixated on the fire, hypnotized by their dance; a fiery consumption that sends up sparks and ash. She silently begins to clean up the shattered mess, sweeping up the shards of glass, and soaking up the whiskey and gin. Her face is a ghostly white, completely devoid of emotion. The soft tinkling of the glass is? accompanied by the low crackling coming from the hungry flames.

Christmas is a family tradition, perhaps you have this tradition? The family of Macarena is always a mess for decided who is going to organize the Christmas day. This year had to be the Aunt Carmen that was chooses by her family, Macarena’s mom volunteered to help her. But the Aunt Carmen said that she could do it by herself.

He and the rest of the family would arrive the next morning to celebrate the holiday. I closed my eyes and inhaled the aroma of peppermint and freshly baked cookies as my grandmother held me tight. Lights from the glistening tree illuminated the room in red and green. Rocking back and forth, she combed her hands through my hair, all the while praising me for every inch I had grown since my last visit. Christmas was tomorrow, and I could hardly contain myself.

“Dad come on let’s go!” Ari exclaimed running around in the lush green fields that once was the scene bloody of a war.

At that moment, all the lights came back on and the rain started to slow down. "Let's go put out all of the candles now," she said. We left the room, and as I passed that candle on the support beam, I blew it out, the scented smoke rising in the

It was as if the sky was on fire. Red and orange flames painted over the once clear blue canvas and burned. Fog enclosed the area like smoke and ash. No one would bother to notice the sun, weary from burning high in the atmosphere begin to settle. November was coming. Shorter days were creeping up on them. Cold air would soon envelop the region and the year would repeat itself.

I didn't visit the farm that year. Still, the fire never faded from my mind. I stared at the dancing flames, which now were not only blazes, but also unforgettable moments I had at my foster homes. I felt the cozy heat, yielded not by burning wood but by warm hugs. And I became truly fascinated by the blazing unpredictability - not the sudden sparks that lighted the night , but the uncertainties that made me grow

“Then, we had hot chocolate with swirling marshmallows and whipped cream like soft serve. Along with that, piece or two of Russell stover milk chocolate candy. The rooms were so scenic, with Christmas decor everywhere. Ornaments, ribbon and that odor, oh good lord, it was so Christmasy.”

You hate the smell of every candle you’ve ever lit. It can be the typical ‘clean cotton’ or ‘pumpkin’; it can be the ambiguous ‘midsummer’s night’ or ‘home sweet home’, either way to you it smells crude and mocking, a cheap imitation of what it claims to be. You hate the concept of them being on fire, too, because however much you try to link it to fond memories, like huddling around the fireplace at home on cold winter nights, you can’t still the uneasiness in the pit of your stomach.

Finally, my hunger gets the best of me and I get up, I had skipped dinner after all. Walking the few feet it takes to get to the pantry, I glance out the garage door. I don’t see the dazzling lights that glow under my sister’s praise or the jaw-dropping colors my mom crows about or the fantastic feast my grandmother makes. Confused, I turn the knob of the door. My mind thinks back to Lola, all alone on the guest bathroom floor, but quickly surpasses it knowing I’ll only be a few seconds. I creep out, knowing if my family saw I had come out they’d think I had changed my mind about the holiday and beg me to stay out. Tip-Toeing around my mother’s crimson car, I look in the driveway. There, I see my grandfather wobbling down to the road to set what was the biggest firework I had ever

The ignition started from our neighbor’s house, a few blocks away from ours. At first, it was just like a bonfire in a typical camp site, along with the crepitating and popping rhythm. But the prevailing wind accorded it a chance to procure its brawn. Abruptly, the once small torch aggravated into a blaze- spontaneously exacerbating. In an instant, the gusting air catalyzed its