a traditional Christmas Eve

there was one

Christmas eve

where my father threw my

mother

into the Christmas

tree

after she questioned

him about

the scratches

on his face

and the lipstick

on his neck.

he reeked of Seagram's 7. 

fortunately

she landed

on her side and didn't

crush

the model airplane

wrapped

in red paper

with  a ribbon,

that had

my name on it.

the train set also survived,

as well

as the Barbie doll

for my sister, and the dog

bone

for Rex.

after he cut the phone cord

in the kitchen, he stormed  out.

we came running

down the stairs 

to help her up.

she shook it off, straightened

the tree out,

redistributing the angel

hair and tinsel,

then shooed us

back to bed,

saying, Santa Claus won't

come

until you are all fast

asleep.

now scoot.

the next day we all signed

the cast

on her broken arm.