We're heading out this morning, driving down to Massachusetts to spend a few days with Tom's family and our boys. All of the presents are wrapped and bagged; Paul's "Can you bring me [that thing I left in the basement when I moved]?" stuff is at the ready; I have chosen my holiday reading (Kapka Kassapova's Border; Vievee Francis's Forest Primeval); and I have written myself a large note: "DO NOT FORGET THE BLACK CAKE." That would be a faux pas: Christmas in Amherst without the Belle of Amherst's dessert.

Last year, James was alone in his Chicago apartment, Paul and I were making pierogi to comfort ourselves, and we learned that playing card games over zoom is extremely boring. I am very happy we can be together this year. All four of us took Covid tests yesterday and joyfully texted "Negative!" back and forth to each other and to Tom's parents. We're doing our very best to be safe, and I hope that is enough.

I expect you'll hear from me over the holiday. I am always the first person awake in that household, and I generally have plenty of time to write in those early hours, before the bustle begins.

In the meantime, I send you love and good cheer. I hope the snow doesn't start falling till after you arrive at your destination, that your tea mug is warm in your hands, that a few notes of praise and gratitude rise to your lips, that someone laughs at the good jokes, that only the babies cry, that your beds reach out to greet you. Many happy returns of the season, friends.

Here's a little love poem from my forthcoming collection . . . a gift from me to you--

Love Poem from a Tiny Husband

Dawn Potter

 

Some mornings your giant cracks open

the roof latch of your Fisher-Price house

just to watch you dream. You gaze into her eyes

as you roll gently on your yellow plastic couch.

If you had arms, they would swing like a child’s.

 

You are an apple core, a thumb.

Carefully, your giant snaps off your fireman’s helmet,

snaps on your baseball cap. Next door,

the barn moos. White chickens tilt in the loft.

Your dog’s legs bend every which way.

 

Crowd them into the house, your giant croons.

Let every kitchen shelter a horse.

Soon she will rise into the sky and steam west.

Every day, it’s her job to visit a character in a book.

Yours is to sit backwards in the bowl of your tractor,

 

pondering the hillocks of carpet.

This is how you earn your keep.

For now, though, you bask among her strong fingers.

At her command, you sway on your invisible feet.

No one is luckier than you,

 

for you adore a woman who invents all of the stories.

And when those stories are done,

your dear giant kisses the top of your round head,

tucks you into bed at noon,

and invites you to sleep for the rest of her life.

[from Accidental Hymn (Deerbrook Editions, 2022)]