You are at the top of the stairs. You are eight years old, maybe nine, maybe even ten. You still believe in Santa Claus. You are transfixed on the Christmas tree downstairs, bursting pregnant with presents. You smell stale cigarette smoke. That’s okay, it’s the 60s; everyone smoked. You perspire and it smells like grape soda and kinda urine. That’s okay, everyone urinates. You descend one step at a time. Your heart is filled with joy and anticipation of opening the presents, shredding and tearing the wrapping paper, and of course, saving the bows.

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