CHRISTMAS

      I used to imagine snow quilted over rows of colonia rooftops, a blanket of white disguising poverty, erasing the patchy asphalt shingles shriveled like the skin of a spoiled tomato. I imagined my house wasn’t stitched together with Home Depot wood, slabs of gray brick stacked and restacked to form another wall, a future bedroom for my baby sister, a frame that never obeyed my father’s invented geometry. He was always building something, the same car engine, a crooked driveway he’d never finish, yearly promises for a better home, new neighbors, flower-patterned wallpaper, central heating so we wouldn’t keep the stove top on when the weather got cold, those unfair winds seeping through towels nailed like crosses around our windows. Winters never dropped below 50 in the Valley, yet there we were: Father, Mother, Son hiding from the temperature beneath layers of sheets and pillows, flea market coats and sweaters, restless limbs pressed and bound to each other’s warmth, hostage to a torn linoleum floor. I imagined waking up on Christmas morning, the Rockefeller tree in the center of our living room, neon lights softly strung, the scent of suburbia and pine needles perfuming my nostrils, eyes spellbound by the ornaments flickering glittery gold, and below: a horde of store-wrapped gifts placed around a shoebox filled with snow, my tiny hands digging for a childhood I’d want to remember, a blueprint for memories that would never melt.