"what instrument is that?"

poised;
sick at heart.
it sounds like a violin. from japan? she was.
the sirens outside sync beautifully
with her rendetion of silent night
(a little faster than i remember it.)
i watched her.
eyes closed; swaying gentle to the disciplined vibrations of her hand.
and the sweet pet of her bow
against the single plastic string aimed upward toward
a north pole she knows has never existed.
but christmas is in 8 days and
she needs something to happen.
she wont tell us what
because no one speaks
her differently designated tongue.
or maybe!
she already has.
i have an inkling that i could see her life story
through every wrinkle on her face;
or by her coat...
i could wear that coat to polish off
the fashion i suffer for.
she wears that coat for a different reason though...
the money thrift stores save her
she spends on a secret family recipe
for the holidays
to bring together her adapted american family
that never appreciated the value of
her tradition.

we just don't want her to know
we don't really feel guilty
for not wanting to go home
to decorate the tree by our
electric fireplace with fake logs.