it's hard to celebrate christmas

in the center of a crime scene,

but we do it every year,

in the living room,

gathered around a tree

that has been dead for several months

and has been spray-painted green.

one year, we all forced smiles

and jumped at the ringing phone

when one of us was missing.

another year,

we all burst into tears

upon the unwrapping

of a tiny pair of jeans.

last year was uneventful,

though something small and dark

was smoldering beneath the surface

in the manner of a discarded cigarette

about to ignite a forest fire.

gathering around the piano,

or near the fire built once a year for the occasion,

or in a strained semi-circle with one parent on each end,

we do our best to rise above the individual sins

and make merry.