ello, jello

And just like that, the day is over

It’s not Christmas anymore

It’s Boxing Day. The day where a year ago I sported dark purple hickeys all around my neck like a wreath. Where lust fizzed just under my skin, where Dad M. wiggles his eyebrows at me knowingly and lets me sneak away to drink some more, smoke some more, escape some more. Because I did all of that back then. Indulged and then dipped. Double-dipped too. Boat uncle and art aunt didn’t say a single word. They wouldn’t for several weeks, actually. Weeks where I crawled onto Her lap in Her car and bit the skin around her clavicle. And then some more. And then some more. And then some more. Where we kept feeding and swallowing and giving, giving, giving. I lost an earring that night, 365 days ago. I haven’t cleaned my car since. (Disgusting, I know). The stuffed rat we picked out is still sitting on my dashboard. Her shoe scuff marks are still on the backseat passenger door. Sand from the last overnight trip on my floor mat. But tomorrow (today) is Boxing Day. The day after. The day I went looking for the earring I lost in our heated embrace. It’s the year after, and I’m going looking for it again. This time with my cousin’s vacuum.