A second Christmas is happening. I think to myself, there are people who would die for this, Christmas in July. It feels like a chore pulling down decorations and lights, finding a tree. Beckett is elated, she wants gifts, but I think she has too many. I run with unstuffed stockings and think about what I can put inside. Thread, art supplies, a book. Things she already has, but doesn't play with. I run and trip. Something bites me on the knee.
