I held the tiny white-edged Polaroid snapshot in my fingers. The edges have darkened over the years, and the color has tinted an odd shade of green.
I’m in the center of the photo, probably no more than 3 or 4 years old, standing in front of an unshapely real Christmas tree. The tree is decorated with lots of shiny objects, accentuated with far too many stringy, silvery icicles.
My hands are folded in delight, with a big smile on my face. Behind me are stacks and stacks of presents.