I am seven.
I help Grammi
make pancakes flavored with oranges
every Thanksgiving
and cookies with Red Hots for eyes
every Christmas.
I build wooden boats and cars
out of old wood scraps
that Gramps left behind.
I am twelve.
Twenty-four people
come to our house
I mimic the older cousins
at the kids’ table.
We buy the biggest turkey
the grocery store has to offer,
and I am proud of its size.
I am twenty-one.
Two days before Christmas,
my parents tell me
they are getting separated.
When I visit in January,
they’ve changed their mind
but never explain why.
I am twenty-five.
The table is set for three.
My cousins are in
California and
Virginia and
Kentucky and
prison.
We visit Granddaddy
who speaks only in jibberish
and doesn’t remember me.
I am twenty-eight.
I still sleep with the same pillowcase
decorated with fleece snowmen
every Christmas Eve
because I still
believe in its magic.
