I am in the corner of the front room
at 5010 W. Wilson Ave., Chicago, Illinois.
My phone number is Pensacola 6-8616.
I am 6 years old and watching my dad
create this year’s perfect Christmas tree.

Fat, glass, football-shaped lights
strapped to each other 8” apart
by braided threads over wires
wait quietly in a musty smelling
cardboard box at my feet.
Two prongs at the black rubber socket end
jab my bare ankle above white doggy slippers.

My chenille bathrobe is warm and too short.
It used to be Helen’s
but I’m even taller than she is now.

Dad has in his hand a drill
with a funny looking, U-shaped crank.
He is lying on the carpet,
his balding head under pine branches,
his glasses tilted, eyes squinting
at the task:
to fill in boughs where boughs are needed.

A pen knife whittles spare branch ends
and with a shove and a twist:
“Ah, that’s better!
How does it look, Snooks?”

“It’s beautiful, Dad!
Can we put the pretties on now?”

© by Marilyn Zelke-Windau.
Used with the author’s permission.