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34 Christopher Jon Heuer Holiday She stuffed her guilt into turkeys, and deep into the branches of Christmas trees. This was my mother, frantic for the next holiday, her entire life the preparation for an occasion. Her fingers were delicate in manipulation of the crystal dove ornaments that hung from silver garlands on our doors and windows. Her pies rose like angels with trumpets; her tableware and china were immaculate. “See our home,” said her home. Our living room was a cover from McCall’s, a defiant testament of love for her family that radiated like a flaming Yule log. Paying tribute was a toast, the undoing of a fine silk ribbon around a card. Blow out the candles, eat some cake! This is my son, the poetphilosopher ! My son speaks “sign language!” I’m trying to learn! Her smiles were frosted on like white icing, her hands whirring noisemakers. Gallaudet Book 5/1/02, 9:55 AM 34 Christopher Jon Heuer 35 Our conversations were hidden in containers of New Years sweet potatoes and hot muffins, dependent upon holiday formality that our true feelings would not carry through a silence broken only by the usual obligational laughter, around roasted ducks and polished bottles of homemade Thanksgiving wine. Her words were invitations within gold envelopes, formally reminding me of dates for dinners that I would not attend. The writing sounded like an “I do” at a wedding, which was nothing more, really, than a cue to weep. Gallaudet Book 5/1/02, 9:55 AM 35 ...

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