nothing special, we sit, pushing cars around a make believe town created by blocks and talk about the holiday. he won't see his dad, hasn't seen him much in a year, hung up on him the other night. "it doesn't matter," he says, but it does.
he crawls across the floor, stumps, where legs once lived, pushing him along. his wish list is not great, he does not expect much. a stack of packages balances precariously against the wall between the couch and the kitchen table, brought by people he does not know. his brother is jealous, but he reassures him that they will share whatever is behind the shiny paper.
rounding the corner, a blue camaro pulls into a driveway by the lego house and he looks up at me, his brown eyes plumbing mine. pushing his body into sitting position, he lopes his one good arm awkwardly across my shoulder, the nest of his nappy hair pressing into my face.
"you my best friend, you know."
i sit in the moment, while he goes back to pushing the cars around the neighborhood on the faded plastic map, creating life out of little pieces of plastic, stuck together. tucking his words into my pocket, i will pull them out on hard days, when he is telling me to go away, when he is yelling obscenities, when he is throwing things at me and remember a precious christmas gift.
better than anything you can wrap...