The Road Beneath Our Feet

A Bomb Goes Off At Christmas

When I turned three, I began to grasp what was going on.
Christmas came only twice a year: once in the winter 
and once on something called my birthday.
Those boxes wrapped in colored papers
were surprises just for me, either fun toys or boring clothes.
And, after that disaster at the last Christmas on my birthday,
I learned that my parents really meant it
when they said, “You can’t open them till Christmas.”
Even tearing off a corner of wrapping led to a lot of yelling.

So I set to studying the packages.
The green tissue shaped like a baseball bat was easy,
but the rectangular boxes in silver metallic paper 
were a mystery.
If I shook the box and nothing rattled,
it was probably another unwanted shirt.
But if it rattled with small pieces,
it was probably a game.
And if it rattled with large pieces,
it was probably a toy.

The waiting never seemed to end. 
It was as if my dad had not only lit a fuse
but had also hidden extra loops of wire beneath the armchair.
Even on Christmas morning, before I could go downstairs,
I had to take off my comfortable pajamas
and put on this ridiculous red suit and strangulating bow tie.

But finally I got the OK and bounded down the stairs
as if the fuse had burned down and the bomb had exploded.
In mere minutes, I tore through those boxes,
my fingers clawing at the place 
where the Scotch tape held the folds.
Red and green paper rained like shrapnel.

And then I saw it:
a plastic red bowl of apples and tangerines.
I dumped out the fruit and turned the bowl over.
I could pound on it like a drum or sit on it like a stool.
If I turned it over again, I could sit on it like a potty,
much to my amusement and much to the dismay
of my blue-stockinged, red-skirted mom towering above.
I could put it on my face like a mask that made me invisible.
I could wear it on my head like an army helmet.
It was the best toy ever invented.

— Geoffrey Himes