a deep, muted navy blue carpet,
soft under my feet and cheeks.
A fake tree that seemed to reach
the top of twelve-foot-tall ceilings,
with brass instruments dangling at the bottom:
a saxophone, a trombone, a trumpet.
I’d lay on the skirt,
poking at them with my index finger.
Christmas was Andes chocolates
I’d let sit on my tongue and the roof of my mouth
until they melted.
It was matching nightgowns with my twin sister,
and a wind-up angel that played,
what I still think,
is the most beautiful version of Silent Night.
thanks, Matt. ♡
Christmas was my grandparents’ house,
and more presents—
a plastic vanity with fake lipstick and compacts
that smelled like artificial roses.
It was Nat King Cole,
and aches in my heart that I think
I was too young to already start feeling.
Thoughts?