clochard

A bag lady, wea sorting through the papers and the discarded wrappings of two nights ago.

Sometimes you make a mistake, sometimes you just forget. Sometimes, on the morning of December 26th, long after the happy eating has subdued and the gift opening rituals are completed, you realize you are missing a gift. You gather your new belongings, the tokens of the affection of you parents and siblings and you just know that that black little accessory for your gadget is not anywhere in sight. You've sort of known it since yesterday, but were carefully overlooking the fact that it was missing out of fear that somebody -who might be or not your mother-, would suggest that maybe if you would only tidy up a little that mess on your bed you would find it. So you've postponed looking for it and now you hear the door and the boy that comes to pick up the garbage as he pushes out the door box after box of discarded glitter and ribbon and snowflake print. You rush downstairs and then you stop, you're not fully dressed. You yell to please wait and bring the boxes back in. You throw a robe on and forget to tame down a bit the crazy bob you sport these days. The boy looks quizzically as you mumble that some gift or other and it strikes you how terrible it is that he should be listening to this, he, who is working and taking out the remains of your joyful consumption. But he kneels down with you and helps you out. You, a bag lady, with your disheveled haircut, barefooted and absurd
sorting through the tissue paper and the discarded wrappings of two nights ago.