Green is a go. Red, too, ironically enough. As long as they adhere to these hues, Mom can transform anything festive under her roof. Green: plastic tree. No chloroplast action happening within waxy needles. Not since last year’s mantis infestation. Red: string lights coiled around Dad’s urn. Mom says it’s disrespectful. Dad would find it hilarious. Green: potent bundles tucked under my brother’s pillow. Rumors say he’s selling to minors, but surely he can’t be that stupid. Red: chapped cheeks from sitting in the cold. At least frigid temperatures allow respite from a suffocating dynamic inside. Green: cupcake icing decorated by my girlfriend and me. They were originally blue until Mom said we need holiday colors for Christ’s sake. Red: nosebleed. My brother’s fourth this winter. He blames the dry air, but I’m not buying it. Green: sweater of Dad’s that I borrow for a party and end up ripping. Thank god my girlfriend knows how to sew. Red: hickey on my neck. I stumble home giddy but Mom throws a fit. Another one of those and my girlfriend is uninvited from celebrating at our place. Green: thick wads of cash stashed in my brother’s underwear drawer. I should have known he was up to no good. Red: haziness as he grips my throat and hisses tell Mom and you’re dead. Green: traffic lights whizzing past. Go, go, go. Got to get out of here. Red: teary eyes. The waterworks from Mom don’t faze me this time. I know it breaks her heart to see my empty seat at the dinner table this festive season, but maybe someday she’ll understand. My absence only enhances the holiday aesthetic.
Bethany Cutkomp is a writer from St. Louis, Missouri. She enjoys catching chaotic vibes and bees with her bare hands. Her work appears in The Hooghly Review, trampset, Ghost Parachute, Exposed Bone, Alternative Milk Magazine, and more. Find her on social media at @bdcutkomp.
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