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.
My sister and I are both working at a pottery barn over the holiday season. I'm in charge of displays, trees, lights, windows too. I'm not sure what she's in charge of, but we exchange ideas about reds and greens, and delicate versus heavy Christmas decor. I feel like I'm younger, 18 or so, a little lost in my ambitions or what I want them to be. I halfheartedly put ornaments on a tree, hang silk garland on the walls. There's a doll house on the ground with plastic characters. I think about cleaning it up, the alarm sounds. I'm awake.
