Q: My name is Andy … I am 10 … If you could spend the holidays anywhere in the world, where would you go?

FLOTUS: I would spend my holidays on a deserted island, a tropical island, with my family.

It looks nothing like Christmas on the island.

It is full of nothing — only sand and miles and miles of windswept ocean.

(And of course, your family is there, too.)

There is no bullying on the island.

You can walk down the beach and feel the sand in your toes and admire each tiny shellacked toenail, perfect as a shell, and listen to the waves.

There is solitude on the island, and rest.

(And, of course, your family is there, too.)

The island is green.

It does not look like a cursed vision of Narnia, like the whitest Christmas imaginable, like someone heard the phrase “white Christmas” and thought that it meant all color had been purged from the world and all joy had been forgotten.

It is just green and blue, and it is warm, so warm. You can feel the sun on your face.

(Your family is there, too.)

There are no ballerinas on the island performing only for you, as if you had sleepwalked into a child’s nightmare of the Nutcracker. No one is performing for anyone. There is no one there at all, so everyone is kind.

(Well, of course, your family is there, too.)

At first you will eat the food you have brought with you, but later you will strike out for the middle of the island to see what bounty it offers. You will find a spring and drink from it, laughing at its coolness.

You will climb a tree and harvest its fruit, and you will sing with the joy of labor. One morning, as you awaken by yourself with the sunrise, you will see a lizard lazing by your foot and for a moment the thought of how it might taste, the crunch it might make as you bite into its tiny bones, will cross your mind. But you will settle back in the sand to sleep.

Your tan will be flawless.

(And, of course, your family is there, too.)

There is color here in the sky — red and blue in the birds’ wings, but it does not mean anything in particular.

You use your red hat for fetching water. The writing fades.

Everywhere there is a great stillness.

You catch up on your magazines, but only the most cheerful ones, unhooked from time and the news. There is no cell reception here.

You read: Meghan Markle is getting married. To a prince, even! That’s nice. You feel nothing but happiness for this Meghan Markle, marrying her prince, somewhere in a cold city far away where the flashbulbs paint a cage around you with their tiny lights.

You are alone, at peace, with no eyes to see you but your own, and they will not disturb you again.

And, of course, your family is there, too.