Tonight I found you sleeping on the stained white couch in the living room.
I was eating Chinese leftovers in a red bowl with a dessert fork.
The dishes piled high in counters and sinks.
The floor littered with forgotten wrapping, boxes, and presents.
The tree lights burning bright out the window.
Quiet streets.
The rumpus of Boy and Girl jumping from bed to floor and back again. Water running in the bathroom.
You are wearing blue and white checked pajama pants, Hanes socks. Grey t-shirt.
You are not clean-shaven.
Your mouth hangs open. Small snoring sounds.
I sit with my red bowl (fried rice, broccoli, carrots, peas) in the crook of your legs like with my dad when I was a tiny girl.
Your hand moves to scratch your face. I stare off into night-time silence. Musing on past comfort and stale cinnamon buns and varnish smells for your workshop in the basement. Chinese. Christmas. Our battered little artificial tree.
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