Christmas Morning

By Verónica Granado

It’s Christmas morning.  

It’s Christmas morning and I crawl under your skin.  

It’s Christmas morning, I crawl under your skin, and I wear you inside out.  

Your arms, my own, are warm around my body. You shredded your skin, it’s only fair I keep all my bones.  

Outside, the wind is howling and the last leaves of the year hit the windows with the violence of stones. Get out, I know you are there. I curl up on the sofa like a sad dog, waiting for its owner, big wet eyes staring at the door. This year, like every year, it’s only your skin and I. No one bothered to set up the tree or get the ornaments from the basement.  

Tis’ the season to celebrate.  

The neighbours have quitted their clumsy invitations to have me over for Christmas. My presence makes them uncomfortable; I sulk and awkwardly accept their polite reused presents until it’s time to go back home.  

“Poor thing,” they whisper as the door closes behind me.  

I know what it was. They noticed the cross around my neck. I mumbled that it was my mother’s, that I wasn’t a believer anymore. And then they went quiet.  

I fantasise about inviting them in. In a world where they knock on my door, our broken kettle works and I make tea for them. I bring out all the skins you have worn before and, one by one, I pass them around for them to caress, feel and touch.  

“Oh no,” I’d say, “I am alone, for Christmas I’m always alone. But feel this one! It’s the latest. Feel it! It’s still warm. Oh, these bones? They are the same, they are always the same.”  

They’d love the tea, I’d offer them sugar and honey, and they’d be happy to hear everything about you.  

When you are gone it’s the only thing I can talk about. My mouth is so full with your name, I choke on it.  

It’s better if I just wear your flesh and stay silent. It’s almost as if we were cheek against cheek and heart against heart, almost as if my own warmth was still yours, almost as if you had never left, almost as if you would always come back.  

When the phone rings, it’s either your sister or your father. I let it ring until it echoes, it’s never nice when I pick up, they always want your hand-me-downs. Why would I tell them that you are away? You don’t tell them yourself.  

“Away. I don’t know. I don’t know that either. At some point, I guess, yes, I guess your child will return.”  

Because you always do.  

You leave behind your skin and my bones just to return with the first rays of spring. Bring the sunshine to my heart, to the blurry gray you leave behind. Open the windows, drag me out of bed. I’ll cloth myself with you until then.  

Until then, it will be Christmas.  

Until then, I’ll watch TV. 

I’ll boil water on the stove and make myself tea. The silly little trash bugs will drown themselves in it, and I’ll pour the pot over the sink until it clogs with orange slices and cinnamon sticks. When you are back, I’ll return to your side of the bed. We’ll hang your skin on the closet, I’ll admire the new shiny thing you’d wear.  

My bones, still the same.