Page 172 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
Uncle Rafe stands there with a hat that looks like a grandpa and a paper bag that saysNOT COAL.
He is my godfadder.
He says it like that because he is silly and from here.
He bends down.
I pat his cheeks with cookie hands.
“You are festive,” I tell him.
His whiskers are spicy.
His eyes are soft.
“I am at your service, Captain Sprinkle,” he says.
He hands me his whistle. “Hold this. Don’t blow it. Ever.”
I hold it.
I do not blow it. (I blow it later. Very softly. Only once. It is a mouse whistle. Nobody knows except the giraffe.)
Uncle Tino comes next with a toolbox that goes clink and a box of lights that goes tangle.
He says, “The door chime was flat. Now it is jazzy.”
“It is jazzy,” I agree.
He smells like outside and peppermint.
He fixes things without making them feel bad, which is a good trick.
Rosa comes up the stairs with bread wrapped like a present and says, “Don’t tell anyone, I baked for the wrong holiday,” and winks because baking is always the right holiday.
Nonna (my grandma) comes after, with soup and opinions in a pot.
She puts the soup on the stove and the opinions in her pocket for later.
She shows me herbs with her hands like puppets. “Basil. Oregano. Thyme.”
I give thyme a hug because we are friends.
Then the door chime sings again and it is Auntie Rizzo from Mama’s work.
She wears blinking lights like a very safe ambulance and brings a tiny sweater for my giraffe because my giraffe does not know winter.
Everyone is here now.
The house gets bigger to fit them.
The tree glows like a secret you can keep and also tell.
Daddy lifts me up, whoosh, so I can put the star on.
The star is glitter and bravery.
My hands shake from big job feelings.
