My mother breaks the silence. some coffee! see you tonight, grumpy “Drink I’ll pants!” The phone buzzes dead. I breathe in the silence, listening to the phone buzz buzz buzz until I hang up too. Eve I favorite I pull the comforter over my head. “Christmas Eve,” utter. “My holiday.” --- I own a car. So the soles of my shoes wear out quickly, and, walking through the don’t streets to my house as the sun sets, I remember when I came home, on the first day of mother’s winter. I waltzed through the door slightly breathless from my walk home from work and you greeted me from the couch, home early. I sat down and you looked at me, through your lashes and the quiet, and you took my thin ankle in your hands and looked at the bottom of my shoes, smiling to yourself and shaking your head. I remember what it was like, for someone to understand me like this. The uneven asphalt presses against my thinning soles. I close my eyes before I knock on my door and, rearranging my face, bring the knocker down. mother’s My sister greets me. She is older than me, and perhaps more of a free spirit. She has a presence that swishes around her hemp skirt and curls around her painted wrists. always said I’ve people must think her presence screams have a goat, I live on a farm, I am aggressively “I happy”. Her three children run in circles around me, screaming and blowing kazoos. This cacophony is part of the made-up dinner party tradition. Through the noise, we cook. ---
My mother breaks the silence. “Drink some coffee! I’ll see you tonight, grumpy pants!” The phone buzzes dead. I breathe in the silence, listening to the phone buzz buzz buzz until I hang up too. “Christmas Eve Eve,” I utter. “My favorite holiday.” I pull the comforter over my head. --- I don’t own a car. So the soles of my shoes wear out quickly, and, walking through the streets to my mother’s house as the sun sets, I remember when I came home, on the first day of winter. I waltzed through the door slightly breathless from my walk home from work and you greeted me from the couch, home early. I sat down and you looked at me, through your lashes and the quiet, and you took my thin ankle in your hands and looked at the bottom of my shoes, smiling to yourself and shaking your head. I remember what it was like, for someone to understand me like this. The uneven asphalt presses against my thinning soles. I close my eyes before I knock on my mother’s door and, rearranging my face, bring the knocker down. My sister greets me. She is older than me, and perhaps more of a free spirit. She has a presence that swishes around her hemp skirt and curls around her painted wrists. I’ve always said people must think her presence screams “I have a goat, I live on a farm, I am aggressively happy”. Her three children run in circles around me, screaming and blowing kazoos. This cacophony is part of the made-up dinner party tradition. Through the noise, we cook. ---
FrontMatterandStoriesRevised.docx