2021-12-23T15:38:12-08:00December 26th, 2013|Parenthood|


I have grown waxy
from not leaving the house,
roaming around
eating nuts.

The conversations drift
like the sea,
never quite ending
but scraping back and forth,
pulling people in
and then leaving
them stranded.

My daughter sleeps on an ottoman
beside the crackers and trout
while my son jumps off a barstool
over and over
singing songs from Oliver,
his face peeling with delight.

It’s late,
our third night here,
a nest of family,
all of us smelling like scented candles,
playing Scattergories,
our cheeks sore from laughing.

I pick at the gingerbread village
my 20-year-old niece made with my son,
roads of ju-jubes and tidy homes
and then my son’s contribution,
gingerbread men who lay like drunkards
on their backs,
faces smeared.

We have to leave early tomorrow
so he won’t have time to eat it
but I doubt he’ll even remember
that one wedge of fun
in a Christmas
as full and predictable
as I pray
it always will be.

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