Sometimes, a sense of scale

is all I need.

Almost Christmas, again:

and we take out the birds with party hats from Nancy, the silver bells from my Mom,

 and the little wooden deer from Zihuatanejo, and I recall 

all of those days and all of my people.

Grasses the color of her hair, and the creek is

shaped by tidal waters and moves with our changing thoughts.

My dear ones remain mysterious

 despite all my assumptions and my constant stream of questions.