For Alexandra Zimmerman

Up until my eleventh
birthday, my father called
me Danny boy. Then,
when my mother died, he
stopped. It was cancer that
caught her – a lump in
her tummy, I was told. My
mother’s name was Beverly
and my father called her
Bev. Then, one day, he
stopped. Every night, he
came home from the hospital,
smelling of disinfectant and
sadness. He would tuck me in,
smooth back my hair and say
your mother loves you very much
Then, one night, he stopped.
Christmas morning was dry,
quiet and gray. I found my
father sitting by the fireplace
with a cold cup of coffee in
his hands. He was motionless
in his rocking chair, staring
transfixed at the blinking
reflection of Christmas tree
lights in the family photos
on the mantle. There was
an empty chair next to him,
but it wasn’t meant for me.
I sat down on the floor and
drew my knees up to my
chest. The rug prickled my
legs through my thin pajama
pants but I didn’t move.
After a very long pause, my
father sighed, let’s open some
presents Danny boy.
Not twenty minutes later,
he received a call from the
hospital. I was left
sitting in a shredded
heap of torn wrapping paper
and gifts I didn’t want.
Even hospitals are open
on Christmas. After a very
long pause, I got up and
dusted myself off. I tugged
on my thick winter coat and I
took some change from the coffee
can on my dresser and
stashed it in my left pocket –
the pocket without the
hole. Then, I pulled my
knitted cap down over my
ears so my bangs were
flattened to my forehead
and wrapped the matching
scarf around my mouth so
I could taste the yarn. I
walked out the door and
down the few blocks to the
drug store run by the
nice Chinese man who
used to give me candy
when I had to pick up
my mother’s medicine
for my father. Even drug
stores are open on Christmas.
He glanced at me when I
shuffled past the counter. I
really wanted to get something
for my father but before
I could make it to the aisle
with the shaving accessories,
I saw a small display of
inflatable balloons. Forgetting
my father, I grabbed five
bags of twenty-five red
balloons. The nice Chinese
man rang them up for
me but I stopped him at
four because I barely
had enough for that.
He looked at me for
a long moment, asking
are you sure this is all
with his eyes and I nodded.
We had an old helium tank
in the garage that my
father bought for my mother
because she once loved parties.
I ruined one balloon by
filling it with too much, so I
was down to ninety-nine.
I inflated every balloon
and tied them with old
string. I wrote the same
phrase over and over on
pieces of paper and
taped them to the trailing
twine. I went door to door
that Christmas, handing
out my presents to everyone.
I gave one to a little girl
who answered the door. She
couldn’t read and she asked
what does it say and I
smiled like the times my
father smiled at me and said,
your mother loves you very much
and she smiled back at me
like all the times I smiled back
at my father.