It's 6 P.M. on Christmas Eve when you're getting home. Tears frozen into your cheeks. You dry them by the stove. You drop your jacket to the ground, but your toque stays on your head. You run upstairs and hide under the bedspread. I call your name out several times, but you don't show your face, so I go up to your room and approach your hiding place. I see the gift your brother gave. He's a stylist from L.A. He's inflicted his aesthetic on your family. Your skin white like the whitest snow when you stand beside the window. I say "Your screwed up hair looks beautiful to me" Your eyes shine like Christmas lights. Your voice sails like a box-kite. There s a smile upon your face; you're getting happy. So let s add up all our blessings on an abacus. Merry Christmas, merry Christmas. We'll dance into our snowpants and into our parkas. Merry Christmas, Angela. We've been friends since we were girls, and you've always been there for me. And I'll do the same for you: I ll offer empathy. Jane's Christmas party is today, but we could go outside and play. We could show up soaking wet and hours late. Chorus.