We stared in amazement at what this find may mean for us.

"It's here for the taking," Brother shrugged, "gimme a boost."

He landed in the dumpster with a thud.

I checked the school parking lot: empty due to Christmas break.

He pushed and I pulled. Success!

Ecstatic, we pulled our treasure away. In small puffs, our breath took wing upon the shimmering winter air. Giddy with hope, we hardly felt the cold by then.

We arrived at the door of our

impoverished home, filled with childish certainty: Santa would remember us this year.

This year we had a tree.

Both girls wore long coats with big buttons that reached to their knees.

Winnie wore a sleek red one with a furry white undercollar. While Sadie's was a dim mustard yellow color.

Currently they huddled within the last stop from a large delivery truck. This one being an old, creaking little shop.

And just ten hours left before the Christmas party the following night.

"I don't like you and you don't like me," Winnie had so eloquently said, "but thinking your parents stole those old decorations-- beautiful as they are-- it's stupid. And your family isn't stupid Sadie."

A truce.

Every Sunday, I receive a box.

It comes on a small van, grey smog harumphing from its exhaust.

The box is made from thick cardboard; quality tape is wrapped around each gap. It takes me some time to open the box as I've never quite perfected a technique.

Once the packaging has been ravaged, I peer inside, four roughly ripped corners frame my face. At the base, an arms' depth away, sits an envelope.

I lift the envelope from the dead center where it always seems to sit, delicately peeling the wax seal.

A letter. To me. 'You are nothing'.