With one phrase, the White Christmas cheer of a day incinerates, and there is burning, burning, burning. And one angry, desperate phone call. But nothing can be solved, and there is no Christmas Eve miracle.
Just anger, burning, burning, burning, and a lost pair of pink embroidered flower slippers, left by a grandmother who passed away eight years ago. And a guilty mother who threw away something important, and a detached father who is silent, and an exploding daughter who is burning, burning, burning, hating Christmas and its trappings of faux joviality and bland cheer.
Written: 12/24/09
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