My mother always puts the lights up first.

She says that it helps her—

because even though it’s dark

she knows that our old lights are

working hard outside.

My mother always takes the lights down first.

She says it’s hard work—

but nothing compared to the storms

that these small nodes have worn through

and that they deserve a break.

I try to stay on her schedule for my first year.

She says I can do my own thing—

but there’s a strange sort of solidarity

knowing that my mom and I

are putting our lights up together,

apart.

 Christmas. Hot chocolate,Candy Canes,Snow Warm and Fuzzy blankets 

And sitting by the fire with the one you love 

 What does it all really mean? 

How long will it last? 

 A lifetime, one day, 2 years? 

How long will I be able to spend my Christmases with you? 

How long will I be able to call you the one. 

How long will we enjoy Christmas cookies and holiday cheer together? 

How long? 

 You left… 

You left after the first year 

I thought I would be able to look forward to you every year 

But you left.. 

 You left me alone to celebrate by myself 

The hot chocolate…it’s cold 

The candy canes… crushed

The fire is dying and my blanket isn’t as warm any more 

 All because you left. 

Christmas 

What does it really mean?

Snowstorm

She shifts in her car seat. I’m trying to get her to practice on time, but the snow’s coming down and people are driving slow. She’s nervous, obviously. Swimming is more important to her than speed limits—and I think she’s a little mad at me because I don’t feel the same.

So I hand him my phone. “Here,” I say. She tilts his head in a way I haven’t seen her do before. “Pick out some music. It helps me when I’m nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” she says, but she takes my phone anyway. She starts playing 2000s hits, stuff that I’m a little surprised she knows. The light turns red, then green, then red again. We’ve only moved a foot. 

Another song starts playing. She smiles. “You know, I think it’s real talent when you can sing like this.” She starts. I listen, knowing that this is a rare moment. “Like, money is in pop music, but I like this stuff better.”

“Oh, 100%,” I say, hopefully not too enthusiastically.

“Like,” she says, skipping ahead a couple songs. “This one. I know all the words.” Just to prove it, she starts singing along. She’s quiet, and she doesn’t hit all the notes, but she does a good enough job. By the second time the chorus comes around, I join in.

By the time we make it past the traffic, we’ve started belting. It’s a nice feeling, letting the snow swirl around us and singing away the traffic. She’s playing me her favorite songs, the ones I think she’s a little too embarrassed to show her friends. She knows all the words—it’s a little scary.

“How do you pick up on stuff so quickly?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I dunno. Sometimes music just gets stuck in my head.”

We make it to practice on time. I offer to stick around and drive her home, but she says I don’t need to and she can get a ride.

I drive home in a dying snowstorm, screaming lyrics all the way.