merry justwrite

I unwind the wind from around about my fingers, let them breathe the cool, still air for the first time. The gingerbread people are anxious in my oven, feeling their edges begin to burn while their souls are still raw, chewy in the middle, a glass of milk already emptied and drowned in the sink. My pine needles fall to my feet, parched, almost on fire, watching the light leak out through the bottom, nothing to seal that hole. I tell him to stand here, to wait until he's done waiting. I hang shiny fish on hooks from his ears, comb his hair just right and tell him not to move much, to suck shallow breaths and pretend the noises aren't so loud. No use jumping. They're only echoes tunneling up from the basement, full of fury and those words I forget, signifying something that I don't want to understand because my organs ache when I think of it, playing low, slow carols that sound like dirges when I'm so far away, making lists of resolutions impossible so I can feel bad about it later, feel anything, and I forgot he was waiting in the family room so long the carpet grew up over his mind, clouded the room with clouds that I try to catch in my palms which are too flat to grasp, too empty to know what it is to be full. There is a spot on the ceiling that I chase with shadows because it's made of light, something I know how to hide, tiny footsteps in the corners, the voices in the basement ceasing, my unwrapped presents shielding their eyes with paper while gingerbread people feel their souls harden and beg for milk. I forget where I found it the first time, and I write myself a note to free him from the carpet before all my needles fall again.