When I was a child, I eagerly awaited the seventh night before Christmas. On this night, right before I went to sleep, I would open the back door to our house. The wall of cold air that had been kept waiting outside would rush in at your feet and reach up, turning your breath into icy clouds. The snow had usually drifted up against the door and would form a little wall with small peaks along the step that separated the house from the rest of the world out there.
It is here, on the top step, that I would plunge into the snow a small empty glass milk bottle.
This bottle would be joined by three others, as each one of my older brothers also went to bed. Each bottle proudly decorated, our names written on the glass, so there would be no mistaking which one belonged to whom…
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