I didn't ask for a cat for Christmas. I have enough as is. And yet, as I sit around the Christmas tree, eyeing my present - movement.

The box moved. Almost like how I moved away to avoid things like this. Isn't my family supposed to know me best? Do they not know I already have three cats? I'm astounded, really.

"Is it my turn, yet? What's the order, again? I already forgot." I asked shyly, attempting to have the proper tone. Christmas, birthdays, anything that involves presents and feelings all require an emotional tact and a form of patience I simply was not born with. This is me at my unemotional, emotional best. Don't let it show how disappointed you are it's another cat.

"No, we're going youngest to oldest - you're up after Nema, and Grover just went." My dad responds flatly. He's allowed to have, 'a tone' (or - lack of?) with these things. He knows for sure what his present is. It's the same thing he asks for every year, and the same thing we all get him every year. Simply, socks. As an adult, I can see why he gets that pass. I never understood it as a child.

"Alright, thank you," I reply, feeling certain my cover is still decent.

As the family assembly line of unwrapping, tearing, viewing, thanking ritual ticks closer to me, all I can think of is how ungrateful I will certainly have to seem at some point. I don't know how to explain this concept to family outsiders. My three cats were all Christmas and birthday presents. Yes, all from my same family. Do they forget, is there a sort of mental timer that ticks down and wipes their memory a few weeks before Christmas, or what?

I see the box shift, yet again. Beautiful, metallic blue glittered wrapping paper. Beautiful box size, for a cat. I can't imagine why anyone would willingly wrangle a cat (not a kitten - let me be clear here) into a box, and hurriedly wrap it just before I arrive, for years in a row. Was one time not enough?

"Now, Dee, it's your turn! What do you think it is!?" Nema speaks as if she's rabid. In a sense, she is - she has more than one present, and well... any stalling on any gift-receiver's part means she is further away from opening hers. I get it - I was her age once, too. I wish I was still excited for gifts. On my life, I would be excited if I knew it wasn't another cat.

Another cat. Another bill. Another mouth to feed, another living thing that requires routine check-ups, dental care, vaccines, socialization... an added litterbox, an added cat tree, I'll have to add more toys because Baby, Dime, and Hokey are all hyper-possessive of their toys, the mental list goes on and on. Please, God. Anything but another cat. Maybe next year?

All of a sudden it clicks. This has to be a joke. No way my family would gift me another cat after hearing how cramped and crowded my little apartment is. I have spoken to them at minimum, five times about how the lack of space means Baby, Dime, and Hokey fight more. Adding another, unknown cat to my already struggling financially, cramped, hectic life? No, they wouldn't. They wouldn't.

In the two seconds it took me to have that thought, the present is on my lap.

"Shake it! What do you think it is!?" Nema repeats, irritated by my lack of response. She could not be more irritated than me, the woman gaining a fourth cat despite all signs pointing to me not wanting a cat.

"...Shake it? I think I'll pass... I think this is another cat. Is this another cat?"

"No, no, no, bro, I promise it's not another cat, just open it already!" She's up out of her sitting position in excitement. "It's something special, that's for sure!" She stands, and reaches to open my present. Cat or not, I cannot deny I do enjoy the act of opening the present. That's my time.

"Hey, hey, hey, okay, okay!" I defensively place my arm between her and the cat gift, using my other arm to begin my careful, saves-the-wrapping-paper unwrapping.

Please, God. Somehow make it not a cat. Anything is better than a cat. Please, please, please, somehow, God, hear my prayer. Isn't Shrodinger's Cat a thing? God, you can have the cat. I'm sure you have enough time in eternity to give it all the love and care it deserves. God knows -- well, you are God, so you know I don't have that kind of time or energy.

As I finish unwrapping the box, I lift it onto the living room table for the grand reveal. Before I can open the box myself, Grover reaches over and knocks it off the table, and out it falls.

God. God. God.

No, God. I take it back.

"Oh --" I can feel my heartbeat is out of natural rhythm. "Oh, Grandma's... Grandma's tarot cards. What the eff, ahahaha, um, why the big box?" A room wide boom of laughter begins. An eruption of emotion from everyone.

"We knew you'd think it was a cat!"

God? God? God?

"So you... instead of a cat, hahaha, you gave me --"

Another boom, this one a group reply.

"THE CURSED TAROT DECK!"

God. God. God. Did you switch the cat? God, are you there? God? God, please. God, did you switch the cat? God. God, please. I saw the box move with my own eyes. I'm not tired, I haven't been drinking. God?

God? Are curses real? God, please, I didn't mean anything else like this.

...God, are you there?

I'm snapped out of my internal terror by another terror. Nema has gotten close enough to me to whisper.

"Don't worry - I saw it move, too. L. O. L. Maybe they are for real haunted, haha!" She jokes as she hands me the deck.

God. God. God. Please.

...anybody? Can I just... put them back? Close the box? Fuck.

Not Schrodinger's Cat.

Pandora's box.

Delicacy to the ladybug

The aphids hide from her

Underside the leaf, underneath her

Feel the vibrations of her walking above

Wonder briefly about if boy ladybugs exist

And as if the thought alerted her

She lowers herself to their level

The Aphids on the Underside

Feel the vibrations of her walking alongside them

Briefly, the delicate aphids are on her level

A wondrous thought of community, of not being alone

Ladybug on the underside

The Aphids on the Underside were never there

The Aphids on the Upside

Delicate company to the ladybug

The aphids hide from her

Upside the leaf, over her

Feel the vibrations of them walking above

Wonder briefly if they care about if boy ladybugs exist

And the thought alerted her

She raises herself to their level

The Aphids

Feel her feasting

Wondrously, briefly - as if they were never there

"Imagine that," I wondered aloud as I hung up the phone.

"Imagine what?" she asks anxiously, sitting across from me, her preteen face full of worry.

"Imagine I know every lie the second it's told."

Imagine she believes it. I don't know every time people lie. I'm her role model, though, so she believes me.

"...I'm sorry. I didn't know it would be an issue."

Imagine I was simply speaking to fill silence.

I'm sorry, I don't understand how I'm so good at catching little rebellious actions. I do the same routine every time. I wasn't even on the phone?

"I wonder how many passwords I may be able to guess with personal answers," I wondered aloud.

"...Now why even say that? I'm paranoid about anything I've ever posted online whenever you talk like that." Her unnecessary reply cut me.

"No, no, no - not like that. In the... I wonder how much of people, are people, online. You know?" I waved my hand in dismissal at the miscommunication.

[You always switch styles so fast. How did we go from hacking to how comfortable people are to be themselves in spaces you know relatively little about?]

Her blank face, like many, mirrors my confusion - or, highlights the difference between dismay at missed connections and dismissal of miscommunications. Let me try again.

"I'm not being... I mean, I'm not trying to be confusing. What I'm saying is, I just wonder which places and who feel comfortable enough, in today's day and age, to be really vulnerable. Like, in a safe way. When I say safe, I mean they won't become like, dangerously viral or have to join one of those support groups for people who have become viral. I mean, everyone we know in real life is naturally so interesting. I can't imagine they're hard to find online." Over animatedly, I wave my hands along with my speech in hopes I bridge the gap better with more body language. Layering!

[You love layers in fashion. Is that manly? Is that masculine, or feminine, or do you, 'not care'? I know you don't care, but others do. I would pay that some thought.]

"Yeahhh, I still feel like you hit the blunt and it hit you way too hard back." She smiles at me and leans in to me. "It's nice to be with a himbo sometimes, I love the way you look when you talk like that. I just wish it wasn't on such bizarre things sometimes. But that's what makes you, you, and I love you for it, too." Wrapping her arms around me, she squeezes me tight.

"I am not a himbo - I am a lady," I retort, in my black beater tank, farm-grade men's jeans, name brand (discount store) boxers... and sports bra, and ladies' socks, and women's glasses. Rule of three, babes. "I just performed a mental check. I am wearing at least three articles of women's clothing. I do not understand how that does not translate to you."

[You are so artistic!]

"Oh. Can a lady only describe herself in extremely convoluted, irritating, nonsensical, illogical, 'all looks like a scene from her life exactly', 'always comes off like a stream of conscious attempt at being deep', way, and come off Patrick Bateman in real life?" Her tone shifts to harsh from the previous soothing lilt.

"Yeah, babes. Prone to it. I also do not know if that aspect of me is changeable. I do not enjoy it myself, remember that." Mean tone, flat voiced reply.

"Like if I interviewed the American Psycho, you'd hit every mark except for you're like..." She gestures strangely with her hands. Not one to be gesticulative, I pay closer attention to what she says next. It will matter, I know that much. "...like... kind've - well, not in a rude way? But also like, the stereotypical snowflake. I have never met someone so sensitive yet so insensitive to how sensitive they are as you, while also being so vain the main way you chose to convey yourself was in a sort've interview structure. With two of yourselves."

[You are ill with many things.]

"...Okay. Anyways, want to take guesses on when the world figures out it needs an AI-backed translator for different communication styles? I really do feel that would be the single greatest shift in communications globally."

"No. Wanna hit this?" She leans up with the blunt.

"We'll do both," Is this the part of my personality that people tell me is 'steam rolling'? "Or - no, you're right. Lemme hit that. Fuck, I love a good legal state."

[You'll love feeling anxious afterwards. You wish it was lavender so bad.]

"Wait - no, I'll just get anxious." I pass the blunt back to her, unhit. "I've had enough already,"

"You had a puff that I don't know you even held long enough to get anything from." She stares at me deadpan.

"Okay - sure. Okay, yeah, you're right." Getting my gumption up, I grab the blunt back, and puff away at it.

[Too wishy-washy to not annoy her, too cowardly to admit I just don't want to. Malleable. Is sloth not a sin?]

"Does this count as sloth, babes?"

"Now how are we talking about sloths?" She caresses my face.

"Oooh... I don't know, now I see I'd rather speak about the beautiful woman in front of me." Tender Aphrodite... release me...

[What was your first thought, again? Where did we start?]

(Oh shit, haha, I stone you too when I get stoned?)

[Shister, shpace, please.]

(Are we not irritating?)

[We is only spoken as misery loves company. I am not irritating. I can see you irritating most of the world, though, sonny girl.]

(Sonny girl? Did you mean sunny girl?)

[Girl. Look how you are dressed. I said sonny instead of sunny for a reason. You also can't hear the difference when those words are spoken - you always make your own joke openings without realizing how they fall back on you. Given that, I still said what I said.]

(Alright. So. Back to reality. Let's work on making me less paranoid, right?)

[ ]

(Et tu, Brutus?)

[ ]

"Want to watch that one space time movie? Or, any move about time and space? Any sci-fi movies you like?" I ask her in a daze, her sweet, sweet arms around me sedating me.

"Um, not really."

It fed me, and I bit the hand it used to do so.

And I will do it again and again.

Two insatiable beings, seeing who'll run out of edible matter first.

I'm not used to losing.

That raised me.

A shitty spring, to a farmer that wants to sell manure is a wonderful crick in words. Rough and tumble, unpredictable, late, early, she comes when she wants. A perfect woman shoehorned out of womanhood. She'd tell me if she wanted me to say more about her - be careful, she may be just around the corner. Or, acres down the way, she runs on her own time.

A blazing summer to a farmer that wants to grow pot is a catch-22. The heat laze combined with the green haze combined with the warmth of summer days means the advertising of summer activities is misleading; summer is for resting. A lazy, perfect woman, allowed womanhood on a technicality. What a lovely time and way of life, to toast everybody to perfection, hold them, warm them, love them gently.

Autumn after summer - I don't have a sibling born in fall, only one who was almost namesake'd the season. Mysterious woman - allowed as the blueprint. Nobody knows what she should have been, and in that, her personality blooms. Shhh - let her be silently unknown and known. It's what she wants. Start layering and covering up for the next, trial your fashions before the next season.

Winter. My best friend. A love hate relationship, as -22 can bite - the real activity season. Despite being ineffable during the entire rest of the year, we all love her for the contrast in temperature. Layers, hot chocolate, wasn't Christmas made to celebrate each other? Would you be more comfortable opening gifts with sweat dripping from your nose? A woman made by comparison - this one's the goat. She doesn't care for the scorn three fourths out of the year. She's only cold to drive people together. A sweet, shy, beautiful old woman who's more than happy to wait her turn.

Who, for whatever reason, shared her weed with my younger sister and I as she was fighting cancer. My sister started to have a panic attack from smoking too much. My Grandma said she had something for her.

...then she pretended to whip out an assault weapon and shoot her with it.

It's things like that that make life living. The, "Why...? ...? Wtf?" moments. I just love them.

Of gentle hearts, turned to gentle fists, then turned gentle.

One womb, ten sets of ears. Five separate beating drums, to ten separate ear drums.

The whoosh of fluid, the beating of familiar hearts - what do quintuplets think the world will be like? Do they think they'd always hear the heartbeats of their womb mates? Imagine their trauma of being born.

All the whooshing and beating suddenly changes in an instant. For intervals with undetermined amounts of time between them, the beating of the other hearts isn't yet translated to surprised screaming - for a moment.

Being the first is the worst. The amount of loneliness felt in what could realistically only be a few minutes between births would be an agony usually only found far later in life. Loneliness, until placed on the sixth heartbeat for peace.

Further away than the siblings, the parental sixth heartbeat enters the auditory plane once again. What could potentially have faded into a background heartbeat is called forward, a comforting sound to ease the pain of not hearing one's siblings.

Siblings may not always share the same womb, and the relationships of siblings are varied in both intensity and structure; but the common theme across all familial relationships?

"Your heart tells you who your family is."

You do not get to decide if or when you hear heartbeats.

I hope you know I wanted to visit to show you how hard I was working on becoming nice. I'm so sorry I didn't make it before the cancer got you, and I'm more sorry the cancer got you at all.

Now you twinkle, twinkle, little star.

Aww, how I wonder what you are, now.

Lovingly and positively,

- Your Flamboyant, Disorganized Child

What can I say? Children come and go. Mother, I am not, but my experience mothering almost nullifies the statement.

"Auntuncle Zee?" Baboon asks, somehow standing taller than me. She somehow still looks up to me.

"Yeah, honey girl?" I respond, not used to the passage of time. No amount of time can get you used to the unknowns of growing.

"Did the job call you back?" She asks innocently enough.

"Yes, honey girl. Do not fret about Auntuncle, some things never change." I state back.

"Grandpa was talking about how you're already supposed to have a job, though," Another excellent innocent statement. An astute observation.

"I have a job right now." I love this game.

"What job? Since when?" Her sweet little face frinkles in confusion.

"Auntuncle. Full time, since... when was your oldest sister born?"

"Jordan, I think he means a real job. You haven't even met Cassandra, so she wouldn't count."

"Am I not adding value and depth to your life through lessons, child? Whom else has a dearest Auntuncle?" My query is perfectly valid. To answer a question with a question is uncouth, and yet - the situation called for a question.

It's how I teach.

"Um... I guess you are, I don't think any other people have an Auntuncle," Her disappointed face is painful to me. Pivot, support the child, the next generation.

"Yeah... you definitely don't have four sisters who share the same Auntuncle." My quip, borne as natural as it's materialistic equipment.

"I fo- I was just asking if you got a job because Grandpa told me to bother you about it, and ask if you needed help looking," The frustration grows on sweet Baboon's face. I love this game.

"Niecey, didst thou not just forget four blood siblings? Methinks thou may require work on your presence of mind. Your presents are your siblings - mightst thou find them, as opposed to helping Auntuncle find a job? Find the siblings, find the power to help Auntuncle. Yeah?"

"I'm really not understanding you right now, Zee." Her face is perfectly confused.

"Yeah. That is the full-time job of an Auntuncle, honey girl. To be confusing."

I can't explain to her how I am even more confused than she is. My confusion starts at the sight of her. She used to be a third of my height. I used to carry her on my shoulders. I used to ask her if she needed help. I'm so proud of her for growing.

Children have such a bizarre hate for reminders that they are loved. Who is confusing who? Is this job not mutually symbiotic?

They tickle my brain and demolish my heart, daily, to make space for more love.

What is confusing about that? Let my brain slip into the fast-paced reality of life. Blink once, miss a school play.

Blink twice, miss an entire life.

Blink three times, Dorothy, and you'll always end up back home.

I'm confused how that cycle could ever be seen as a negative backslide.

Is that not life?

"I'm going to go outside and do some work, then, I guess...?" Her small voice cuts through my thoughts, I must have spaced out.

"Yes! Auntuncle lesson. Go enjoy your slice of life on our shared plot of land, child!" I boom out from my heart and soul to her.

"Um. Okay. I'm gonna have Grandpa spend time with you for... to... I think Grandpa was going to hang out with you anyways," Walking away, I see her slipping out of my life just as easily as before. We're all only a move away from a negative slip.

How positive, life can be what we make of it.

How I wish my wonderful family could understand the vision I try to share!