My Christmas tree is almost parallel to the floor. It looks as if it is growing off a cliff in the corner of our living room or the invisible winds are blowing in from the east. I rather enjoy this and have begun stacking presents at odd angles to heighten the effect.

When I was I child, I’d tell anyone who would listen that when I was old, I was going to have a room in my house. A special room, with the floor painted white and all the furniture glued to the ceiling. I would sit there and look down at my world and try to find my balance. I pictured people wandering in, writhing in fear then eventually laughing silently to themselves as they realized all the rules had change. Here is the new world.

My mother told me when I grew up I would no longer want my special room. She told me this a great deal. She told me this so much that every birthday eve I believed that in the morning I’d wake up and I would no longer recognized my self.

A stranger, who my mother would welcome with open arms, sit her down and in the kitchen and say, “finally darling, you have come.”