twelve-forty-five.
you show up with three novels wrapped
in tacky christmas paper.
humbling me.

fifteen minutes later,
a reunion of the most familiar
unit of my life,
a kind reminder
of rooted compassion.

wrapped in the quilt
you selected the fabric for
i slept for three hours
before the next reunion.

tamales and mimosa dreams
tossing your baby
followed by a constant chatter
of laughter.

another year would take us
after i turned my hand goodbye.

then to homes
where blessings were mantras
to find nourishment
from shrinking bank accounts.
she joked about the
larger christmas cards,
an apology for the weight
we now must carry.

playing the games of divorce,
holidays were learned routines,
before the sun would set
another home.
another family.

i watch in awe at my grandmother manning the kitchen,
my mom, second in the command
even though george did most of the cooking.

familiar smells.
carry me through the company.
embarrassed, i sit alone a few minutes
in the quiet bedroom.

i am reminded of all the people in my life.
and the capacity to get by
on the hope
that they don't even realize they give me.

and just before the clock struck midnight, once again.
you showed up at my home
i stood in the cold now,
anticipating seeing you all day.

without a space inside any home for us,
i never expected that we would spend
that short time
saying things for the first time.

all that talking made the lights glow through foggy windows -
the way they used to when we came home for christmas.
a foggy afterglow, i felt thanks and tiredness equally.

parking tickets paid with christmas money.
three books. new shoes
and two bags of clean clothes
sit piled,
waiting for me to leave home again

happy holidays from the hayworth famiry.