"Finally, it was Christmas Eve. At dinner everybody tried to pretend nothing was particularly special. But everything was. The food tasted more delicious, the air smelled fresher, sweeter; sounds came at a higher pitch; sights seemed sharper, colors richer. It was the same house we lived in all those other 364 evenings, the same rooms, the same furniture, the same stairs, the same people, and yet they seemed now somehow different, transformed as if we were dreaming a good dream over again, knowing all the scenes, trying to make the dream stretch out as long as possible."

from My Father's House
Philip B. Kunhardt,Jr.