Christmas Day, 2020

a letter to family (in free verse).

In underwhelming daylight my family drove

to Nana's house on Ciudad Court.

Winding through the aisles of Spanish-style homes,

a sea of red-clay rooftops,

past lush landscapes of green and pink and burgundy.

We ate Nana’s caramel rolls (whose magic managed to survive the years) 

and sat under the sun-bleached lanai

for what seemed like hours, painting rocks for the garden. 

I painted Papa in a sfumato of sunshine and tangerine

and remembered the last time I’d ever seen him: Christmas, here.

Even though he didn’t remember me.

My dad’s eyes told me this house reminded him of Papa, too.

The drive back to Fifth Avenue was solemn.

6:30 p.m., nothing to do but watch Die Hard on hotel cable 

and pretend to be surprised by John McLane’s Beretta

from last night’s showing.

My father announced that he was headed to the hot tub,

and Mom joined him.

We wandered after them.

Through the steam rising off the pool, I saw my parents

sitting across from a giant Czech family, huddled like Eskimos.

Their foreign tongues made me wonder what their dreams were 

and what foods they hated most.

Crowded, we moved to the empty pool

in 60-degree weather.

So there we were, shivering our asses off. 

Like a clock with dementia, every five minutes 

an unsolicited orchestra of jet engines would raise our heads toward the sky.

Maybe to remind us to look to God.

My father is a doctor, and I am a fashionista.

This Christmas, we bonded over misfortune

and gifts wrapped in

Cancer. 

Of the mouth, the liver, and of hearts.

That, and shellfish.

Covered in goosebumps, I shuffled from side to side

and without reason, started to pinch my hands like a crab.

My dad, on the precipice of amusement asked

“What are you doing?”

“I’m a crab,” I said.

Dad let out a laugh, 

more genuine than I’d heard in months, 

and joined me.

As did everyone else.

So there we were, shuffling and pinching and giggling,

a family of crustaceans in a hotel pool.

I don’t remember much about what happened after that

besides asking a hotel staff member to take a picture 

of us in the pool. 

Or maybe that was before. I don’t know.

What I do remember well, and why I’m even telling you this,

is that I saw—I actually saw—a year’s worth of pain

disappear from Dad’s face

momentarily, because of me.