Hot chocolate tastes like crisp November days and smells like fall leaves. It teases the tongue of memories gone, remembered by smells and tastes and touches. The steaming cup is apple orchards, snowstorms, and Christmas, all rolled in one. It is video games in the basement, bean bag for a chair. It's cat purrs and donkey snuggles and the lilting melody of 'Memory' played on a porcelain rocking horse.
Hot chocolate is the cinnamon, like in gingersnaps and snicker doodles of holiday time. It's the whipped cream like in coffee on camping trips. It is home and it is heart. Hot chocolate is happiness. I want to remember the taste forever; remember the way it feels in my hands.
Hot chocolate is love.
