December on Long Island

Wrapped in an afghan that outlived grandma,
you lie on the couch and mumble
that the tree’s leaning to the left
as we jam it in the stand.

Dad, cursing, denies it’s crooked,
until he steps back and informs us of this fact
as if you’d never said a word.

Then he returns to the truck,
leaving melting footprints on the rug.

Mom brings in some ornaments
and also abandons the scene.

The doctors agree that you shouldn’t be here for Christmas.

You should get to the clinic, the program,
the euphemism, immediately.

“Aspirated vomit. Sedate and restrain.”
You should never have been discharged without a plan.

Dad says it sounds like a country club.

Mom says whatever it takes.

I say as little as possible
and let you direct the routine.

“Hang that little soldier on the left.”

“Are there more of those gold bells?”

“That’s good. I’m feeling minimalist this year.”

You spent Advent with a ventilator in your throat
while storms swept through like grim adolescent moods,
sleet, hail, snow, rain, and random days of clarity.
Now you sit there, watch movies, and wheeze.

I plug in the Christmas lights,
although I put no stock in Christ.

You stumbled through the sliding doors,
screaming of hell and slavery,
swinging wildly at nurses and orderlies…

three days before we found you in ICU
with its blinking red and white lights.

Do you even know who dropped you at the hospital?

I stand on my chair and adjust the star.

I ask what’s next
and you know I don’t mean the tree.

We hear Mom chopping something in the kitchen,
Dad grunting as he shovels snow.

“I don’t know. I’m skeptical.”

The fire sputters in the grate.

“I only recognize one higher power,
and it’s kind of hard to surrender to the weather.”

We gaze out the window,
where reindeer graze on a neighbor’s lawn.

You sip some broth and cough.

Then your head lolls on its haphazard pile of pillows,
so I darken the room and doubtfully listen to you breathe.

Outside, as the sun goes down, the wind picks up.