We were almost there. It had been a while since we saw the whole family. With my writing assignments and my husband’s job, busyness kept us from the get-togethers.

But it all fell into place this year. We would be driving to Chicago to my parents’ house. Seeing all of my siblings. This would be a Christmas to remember.

Walking up to the front door, my stomach tied in knots. Ringing the bell, I heard, “Come on in!” from all corners of the house.

The door swung open and I saw mom. Her hair now silvery white, neatly wrapped in a bun. A big smile spread across her face, her dark brown eyes sparkled.

“Come in, come in!” she said.

The tree stood proudly in the living room. In front of the picture window, where it belonged. I breathed in the smell of pine.

A brightly colored apron covered mom’s dress. Taking steps inside, I smelled the turkey, the meat stuffing complete with chestnuts and ground beef. I knew the fridge would be a holding place for the fresh cranberry orange relish. Right next to a jello mold she probably made last night with apples or bananas. I smelled the loaves of fresh bread that overtook the kitchen.

It was a greek tradition that when the round loaves were cut, the first piece was designated for the house. Then each family member would given a piece in order. Everyone hoped for the quarter tucked inside the loaf before baking. The quarter that signified good fortune to its recipient. And if the quarter was in the house’s piece, then everyone would share in the good fortune.

Dad joined mom, smiling ear to ear at the sight of all of us.

He took our coats and placed them on a bed, something we used to do when company came.

Mom wanted to hear all about my writing. And I was dying to hear how the neighbors were. I pictured her talking over the fence to Mrs. Latzle. Just like when we were singing while on our new swings. Some memories never fade.

She filled me in on our relatives and before I knew it my siblings and their families started coming in. There were hugs and kisses all around.

We laughed at jokes that never got old. We shared stories that bore repeating. And they oohed and ahed as my daughter, Jessica showed them her art on her iPad.

We gathered around the piano to sing some of the carols we sang when we were little.

After dinner, mom made loukoumades, puffed balls of dough fried in oil, drizzled with honey and sometimes sprinkled with chopped walnuts. I loved those honey bubbles. They smelled so good, we never cared how sticky they were. That was half the fun of it.

Peggy reminded Steve of the time she made the paper machete Santa Claus and how funny she looked carrying it down the street. Especially since it was almost six feet tall and she was only 5 feet at the time.

“Remember when you got Gaylord the walking dog?” we asked Steve. You loved that toy.

“No,” George interrupted, “His varoom bike, that was his favorite.”

I looked over at Steve, his brown eyes brimming with tears at the memories. It was good to be together. To recall those childhood times.

The great-grandkids played in the next room with toys of ours mom had tucked away for such a time as this. The stories continued for hours.

I looked at the table full of people I loved. I felt full.

Yes, the food was unbelievable, but we knew it would be. Mom was a great cook. It was the stories, the chance to be together again. The chance to catch up with each other. To really listen.

I never wanted the night to end. Who cares that we’d be tired after all of this. That didn’t matter. We had a chance to take a trip back to our childhood. To all be together like we used to be.

Mom walked towards me with a gift in her hand and a little smile on her face.

“I want you to have this,” she said quietly.

And as I unwrapped this small box I wondered if I was right. Would she give it up?

Carefully opening the lid I gasped. A small compact case. Brushed gold with a ring of blue rhinestones in a circle.

Mom knew what it meant to me. She knew.

I wrapped my arms around her and gave her a big hug.

“Oh thank you, Mom.” I cried.

I handed her a CD and watched as she slipped off the festive paper. It was the music she loved when we were all at home. The Elusive Butterfly, by Bob Lind.

Dad hurried to put it in the CD player and now it was mom’s turn to fight back tears.

The flames in the fireplace danced, making shadows on the walls. Filling the room with a warm glow.

“The tree looks great, Mom,”  I said.

“Remember when we used to put paper tinsel on the tree? And Gus would get impatient and just throw a whole bunch at once?”

Gus laughed, knowing I was accurate. Knowing I’d be the one to clean it up as soon as mom left the room.

“I thought it would be nice to have a real one since…since.”

I reached over and touched her hand, knowing how important this was that we were all together. Our whole family of seven, and all of our families as well.

And sitting by the fire, taking it all in. The sights, the smells, the warmth of family, I dozed off.

When I awoke, it took a little while for the present to erase the past.

I wiped away tears. Dreams are bittersweet. It’s wonderful to see people you haven’t seen in years. People you’ve lost long before you were ready.

And to imagine what it would have been like to all sit around the table again, just for one time.

I closed the photo album I had left open on the coffee table. And reality brought me back quickly.

There was no family reunion. No Christmas holiday meal. And some of the people had been gone for years.

Our family had slowly disintegrated. One death after another. What was once seven people were now just two, my brother and me. Our memories of childhood Christmases would have to suffice. They were the only ones we had.

And in the meantime, there were always dreams.

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Note: This article first appeared in Thrive Global