auld lang syne

On Christmas Day I have a rage blackout so Jackie takes me to the Dunkin’ Donuts palace on Central Avenue. “You’re like one of my kids,” she tells me, as if she’s the big sister. Jackie teaches preschool and has two-year-olds who bite and pinch. “I say to them, ‘You need to take a walk?'”

I need to take a walk.

At the Dunkin’ Donuts palace, which used to be a Kentucky Fried Chicken, we wait in line in front of a man who tells us he is Santa Claus, and that he likes us equally.

“That man is not Santa Claus,” I mutter, though in the moment I do appreciate his eye toward fairness.

Back in the car we turn up the radio and drive south, aimless, talking and not. Jackie tells me stories. I look out the window, cross my ankles, wait for snow.