Frank Sinatra is singing. You cannot escape him. You put in earplugs; the earplugs croon with his voice.
Your youngest daughter has a cough that sound like jingle bells in her chest. The doctor says she’d be jolly soon
enough but you aren’t sure what that means.
The Christmas tree lot is endless. Bones of shoppers who couldn’t find the exit are sold in half- price wreaths.
The city is divided into “pro Die Hard” and “anti Die Hard.” You can’t tell which side is the one
with the shotguns.
There are too many snowmen. You can’t pull out of your driveway without running a dozen
of them over. Your car gets stuck in their flesh. You walk to work.
Christmas ornaments hang from your ceiling and the bulbs seem to scurry up and down their
strings like fat spiders when you aren’t looking.
The Elf on the Shelf has friends. You count seven as you walk through your house, trying to
keep track of them, and by noon there are thirteen in the dining room alone.
Michael Bublé has joined Frank Sinatra. You do not remember the last time it was not
Christmas. There are only soft jazzy voices and endless looping yuletide days.