Christmas is again spent under a mound of possessions. I carefully feign sickness the week of Christ's birth for those precious hours of preparation time. The world is consuming and I am gathering. In this cold apartment bedroom I gather a lifetime of possessions. No covers to pull down along this bare, abrasive mattress. No heat. The cold chills the bones and the warmth which will soon follow will be so much warmer. Radio's unplugged and tapes added to the pile. The temptation of listening to familiar sounds or the ever important voices of news anchors and DJs could be too much. Must make sure these objects are unusable. The last ounces, sips, drops and bottles of alcohol are consumed a day in advance, for this temptation would be too much. The consummation is sacred and ritualistic. The sobering process is deadly. But, all toxins must be flushed before that one perfect day. Not even the left over tobacco of a stubbed out smoke should be within reach. This must be a pure process.
All possessions are gathered on a blanket so the whole could be lifted over me at once, a no hassle process. The day comes and I edge the blanket up, next to my bed. I don't feel the sweat welling beneath the layers upon layers of clothing I am wearing; the padded uterus I have created. Slowly I drag this heap of life over me. Curling into a fetal position the final pinholes of light escape my sight.