I open the yellow box of Crayola crayons
breaking the seal one spot at a time.
It's the day after Christmas and I finally
have time to play with my presents.
I put the new doll on a shelf, not knowing
what else to do with her. Tags have been removed
from crisp new blouses and they're hung
in the closet. (I know my lips pursed a bit
when I opened this gift of clothes. I'm nine
not nineteen.) The Monopoly game I'm saving
for when a friend visits. The flying saucer
needs a little more snow. I picture my mother's
hands wrapping everything, using just a little
Scotch tape and fashioning a bow with the
crimped ribbon she curls by running the scissors
down the leftover ends. I'm young but I know
money is tight. My mom went to the bank
every Friday and put five dollars into her
Christmas Club so we four kids could have
a good Christmas. Ah, but this lowly
stocking stuffer almost glows. I touch the cut-off
pointed tips. I put my nose right up to them
and breathe the waxy scent of imagination.
Forty-eight different colors, forty-eight possibilities.
I find a piece of plain white paper, use two fingers
to pull the orange/red crayon out and begin to draw.