He’s curled in my lap like a silky black sausage. Our tiny Frankenstien. Hair gone in patches, licorice drop eyes, one milky white. Ragged stitches criss-cross his back and his pink little tummy.

22 years ago. Me: mini skirt, white-fringe cowboy boots, sly smile. Her: wide-collar, baby-blue polyester button down, guarded green eyes, triple Aries fire, cruising me carefully. Backstage in Cary, North Carolina when I thought love meant being saved.

Tom Cruise in his perpetual leather jacket skids a motorcycle across the tiny window on the seat back next to me. Scratchy stewardess voice drips from overhead. A strip of puffy peach and pink nestles above a froth of blue-white clouds. My snootch face daughter is down there on a three-night sleepover, held up by the love and grounding of those who stayed so we could fly.

Gay Apparel

Back in the neon pink and black dawn of my hipster days, I dimmed my sparkly lights, unplugged my golden star, scooted silver threads of tinsel under the carpet, and listened to Hole when I longed for Oh Holy Night—ashamed to burn so deeply for something so un-cool. Pissed at the patriarchy for stealing another feminine tradition (movie about this coming sometime soon).

Then I thought, look at that Yule tree, draped in her twinkly boa of rainbow lights, dangly bulbs of gold and green, popping red bows, shimmering glass stars, and I thought - Christmas is SO GAY!

We come together now to follow the mishmash tracks of sea creatures who rose up in the silver glow of dawn, their paths shaped by a knowing old as the stars. Dragging their small bodies to safety, burrowing out tiny holes and leaving flowery fluffs of sand as fine as moon dust.

They leave the sweet arms of the sea, knowing exactly where they are going. They might make it. They might die trying. But they do it nonetheless.

The spark of a match. The glow of the tree. Her tiny lips and latching eyes, birdsong chirps and baby frog squeals. My off-key Christmas hymns, changing all the words to she’s and thems. The joy so great and deep and unshakable, floating up into the silent night.

New disco ball ornaments wink at me through a crackly plastic bag. Silver and gold promises of what might come if I can get up off the couch long enough to hook their tiny mouths onto the tree, still sticky with sap.

Somersalts

Rage. Laughter. Rage. Laughter. Is this the new way I breathe at this age?

Laughter. This 'nice' white mom tripped on a root, walk-running to my friend I was late to meet, two full somersaults across the lumpy grass in front of the Quaker school carpool line! I laughed at my unplanned gymnastics show, but my finger is now bent, rings no longer able to glide over its blooming knuckle.