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.

Moments after being placed on my chest, my son scrunched his blue-tinged face, whimpered and began to cry in earnest.

Leaning over us, my husband spoke with him as he had spoken to my belly for nine months. He stopped crying and appeared to listen.

"He knows your voice," I whispered, smiling, eyes full.

"By the way," Dr. Blunt said, "your husband and your mom didn't know how to tell you, but your father died two days ago."

And thus was my full heart broken, bleeding sorrow that still seeps out now and again, even as it burst with joy.

Lifelong friends Billy and Mark have traded often with each other.

They began swapping baseball cards as children, and graduated to tools and Legos as young adults. Now in their fifties, they exchange bumper stickers and rare coins.

Unable to contact Billy for a month, Mark went to his friend’s home and found him in a deep depression. Mark tried to cheer him by offering to trade his Lincoln-era nickels.

“No more trades,” Billy said. “My wife died. I don’t want to live.”

Mark sat next to his friend. “How about one more? My hope for your grief?”

Billy cried.

I placed the last box down with a thump.

"Whew." I was feeling good as I walked into the hall, which was filled with tables topped with open boxes of cans, bottles, and packets. Soon a middle-aged woman walked in. I greeted her with a smile only to receive a frown. "Maybe she's having a bad day," I thought, walking her through the hall, my smile steady.

"Only one?" She read, pointing to a stack of bologna.

"Yes, only one." I responded.

She grimaced, said "why should I have to eat this, it's so fake," took three, and walked out.

She gave him her smile. And her youth. And her joy. He feasted on it all, then demanded more. But she was spent. Used up. Exhausted. Still he supped on her life-force, until, with her dying breath, she cast him out. Weakly she stumbled away, her faint heart-beat barely a flutter. But outside his shadow was warmth. And smiles. And youth. And joy. The frost around her heart was hard and cold. But slowly it melted away. Each kind word. Each soft gaze. Each peel of laughter. Until she grew a new smile. Different, sometimes sad, but just as beautiful.

After the rice harvest, Daikan the tax collector came, taking more than was due, leaving little for the peasants, while he himself spent the spoils on drink and game.

When Hiroaki, a lone samurai passing through the village, learned of the injustice, he drew his sword with his right hand, and, as it swung high, gripped the handle with his left hand too, tracing an arc as the blade swung low, cutting Daikan from his left shoulder, diagonally, to his right hip.

As Daikan's halves fell in opposite directions, the village erupted in applause. Hiroaki was celebrated as a hero.

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.

With an amazing amount of tenacity, I searched for a child I could call mine. Hopes were dashed in Mexico and then Honduras where a baby was mistakenly given to someone else.

Eventually, I made my way to Paraguay, arriving at midnight. No one was at the airport with my child.

Later, on Christmas morning, I brought my newly adopted Maria through a Paraguayan rainstorm to experience the joy of celebrating the birth of Christ.

When hearing the government was about to end allowing children to leave the country, I did the only thing I knew. God answered my prayer!

My daughter's birthday is near Easter. Her NICU stay ended around my birthday, which is Prince's birthday. My husband, Halloween. My son, Valentine's Day. Christmas, when my in-laws split (temporarily). Memorial Day, when mine did the same (permanently).

Days created for other reasons. Days for other days. Days of secret celebration. Days for private funerals in the darkness of the hillside.

Today, I've decided, is a special day, a celebration of clarity. Of bliss. A day to sit with everything.

A day that is a gift from God, not to me, but to the Reaper.

I watch their exchange, smiling.

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'.