Posts Tagged ‘masks’

That was the year you were Santa.
Your sister was a Christmas tree,
and your dad and I were reindeer.
I remember how much I loved you
that night with your big white beard
falling off your face, how I giggled
with your high-pitched ho ho ho
right before you’d say trick or treat.
I miss you. Every day accordions
with missing you. Every hour
comes to the door, sack in hand,
wondering what I have to offer it.
Sometimes I want to turn off the lights,
pretend I’m not home. But not tonight.
Tonight I hand out memories of you—
you dressed as blue crane, as red ninja,
as a giant cardboard skyscraper,
as a tall green firework made of felt,
and as Santa with a big black belt—
each memory sweeter than the other
until the hour is weighted with unbearable
sweetness, not the kind I can eat,
but the kind that consumes me.
This is the year I dress as myself
for Halloween—some version of me
who has lost all her masks—and you,
you are the one I keep wishing
could still knock on the door.

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