September 14, 2015 | Occasus | Issue 5 | Fiction

Counting

There are six television sets
In our house, three
Are doused with dust,
The other half
Deafens wails from our dog, Jimbo.

Christmas morning is the television:
Full blast fifty-inch flat screen
Airing a Frosty the Snowman re-run
My father’s face blank, fat,
Staring at the peach painted walls.

Mother turns the television
Down to volume ten
Instead of fifty-five
Asking if we should open gifts,
Answered by closed mouths.

Silence, except for four
Cellphone keyboards typing
And father grunting swear words
Seventeen steps from our
Eight foot Christmas tree.

I count sixty-six gifts
Wrapped in gold and purple
With bows the size of skulls
Sixty-six delayed thanks,
Five glares at Jimbo’s black eyes.

Outside, the snow fell frantically
A traffic jam of white
My brother and I exhale
Breath like smoke,
Fingers like popsicles.

We built a snowman with three arms
And called him “Alfred”
Laughing ‘til snot reached our mouths
Til’ mother called us inside,
Our lips chapped and flaking skin.

Father sipped his scotch
His hand on my knee,
And told my brother to shut up.

KATARINA HUELLEMANN is in third year at Western pursuing a major in Psychology and a minor in Creative Writing.