Nature is decorating for the holidays.
Red berries dangle tiny icicles, and browned heads of goldenrod bob above a silver sheen of frost.
Ice crystals crunch beneath my boots, a crisp percussion to winter winds caroling in the trees.
Restless oak leaves rustle, then hush, as the whooshing white pines chime in.
The night promises a waltz of wood smoke, mist, and moon shadows.
the eighteen inch silver Christmas tree on top of the fireplace shelf
along with all of the presents. I can see it now, Sofia crushed by an
artificial tree, stabbed by shattered ornaments, surrounded by
shredded wrapping paper and ribbon (motherhood makes one paranoid).
The pretty lights that used to hang around the doorway will have to be
absent, as there is always something new to “baby proof” (most
recently, the coffee table, which Sofia decided to bite the corner
of). My heart stopped when I first glimpsed the frantic look on her
face due to the fact that she could not release her mouth from the
table, but at least she hasn’t bitten any furniture since.
Delhi metro and manage to sit as I am hit by the evening sweat smell
of a nearby student. A middle-aged woman sandwiches herself between
the sweater and me, making the space more cramped, more fragrant. I
try to distract myself by texting a friend when I see the woman
peering into my phone, and a short-skirted girl punctures my toes with
her six-inch heels.