Joanna Newsom - "81"

    The bus home. It was all dark grey and dark blues, deeply stained carpets of all kinds. Megan carried a case, with a cat in it, and stood cold in the line, trying to keep herself as close to sleep as possible. The pre-check of barcodes and serial numbers and print-outs, had a red-cheeked man refusing eye contact, until he saw the bag. He looked it over, it seemed to frustrate him how cute it was, as if that meant it would try to break the rules,
    "Don't open that bag."
    "I know," she said, thinking lip balm, front suitcase pocket, before I put it up top.
    "Someone could be allergic," he continued, looking down the line like someone was going to shake his fucking hand for saying what they were all thinking.
    "Well," she replied, and handed him her print-out.

    In the dark of the ride, she still couldn't sleep. Little pockets of smartphone light burst up occasionally. Through the cracks, she looked at pictures of strangers and watched them tagged. She turned on her overhead light just to clean her glasses, and the dust looked like stars. Who could ever mistake anyone else for something reincarnated? Next to her sat quietly the little gift she was bringing and when they made eye contact, they seemed to say to each other, "I know, I'm not sure either."

    When Megan gave her the gift, it was received in much the same manner, but still they hugged and sort of wrestled on the carpet, near the tree and near the candles, the kitten sort of leaning on the two, its two moms fighting.

    Christmas, the holidays, are better when you have nothing on your mind.

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