INK: Christmas Day

Anh-Thu Nguyen, Short Story

I don’t know who took this picture. We were standing in a triangular position.

Christmas Day, with the star shining high on top of the tree. My Mom holds me and my brother by our shoulders, our heads leaning towards each other, Our smiles lighting up the picture. As my eyes glance upwards, I see the top of the pyramid, My step-dad being the sharp point, wearing the same jacket since 2000. Which he  still wears to this day, ragged and tattered. As we move right my step-brother, My dad’s arm around his arm. Both faces are awkward, as if they were dreading the photo. This photo was taken around 2010, my sister wasn’t even born then. I think about how the entire atmosphere changed when she was born. Our house changed dramatically, new furniture, new carpet. The only things that didn’t change, over crusty curtains, and a painting just out of frame. We all have shoes on our feet and now no one dares walking in the house with outside shows on. With five in the photo the bottom pyramid is missing structure. The empty spot, later filled by my sister.