“Oh, Christmas Tree”
My father brought home a Sitka spruce.
“Jesus, Randy! A fucking spruce? Do you know how sharp those needles are? Didn’t you feel them? You might as well have brought me a crown of thorns.”
I didn’t mind; it was the most wonderful time of the year.
While I put on the Yentl soundtrack and lit a fire, mom went to find our ski gloves to protect us from the prick.
He sits each session, every session, with his Month-at-a-Glance opened across his lap, speaking mostly non-specifically about what he did on each day of the intervening week, tapping his ballpoint pen on what I assume is the day in question. When I tell him after 45 minutes that our time is up, he closes his calendar and puts it in his burlap bag. He then searches the bottom of that same bag for his checkbook. Upon finding it, he opens the polyvinyl cover, pauses as if in thought, and then asks me: “What is today’s date?” Each session. Every session.
J. Edward Kruft received his MFA in fiction writing from Brooklyn College. He is a Best Short Fictions nominee, and his stories have appeared in several journals, including Crack the Spine and XRAY Literary Magazine. In restaurants, he orders his manhattan with a twist instead of the traditional cherry, because the lemon cuts the sweetest of a heavy-handed vermouth pourer. He lives with his husband, Mike, and their adopted Siberian Husky, Sasha, in Astoria, NY and Livingston Manor, NY. His recent fiction can be found on his Web site: http://www.jedwardkruft.com