Movement and Repose

On paper, a joyful mouse with a Christmas stocking for a cap, holding above
its head a star on a string, stood in front of a wobbly
tree dressed in the season. Every year, like the year before,
snow would fall and Mom would help me put on my boots.
“Remember the bunny ears,” and I would. We'd walk
to her car with the rusted shut passenger door and I'd sit
on the back seat. She drove bus and at the station was a quarter
run Ms. Pac-Man and I always wondered where
Mr. Pac-Man was and why he wouldn't wear a tie. After I turned
seven, on the nights before we'd open presents, Mom would hand me a card
marked my name. Inside I would find the picture-- a mouse, a stocking,
a star, a string, a tree-- with a fifty dollar bill signed “Dad.” I've seen
two pictures of him, one him informal and young, standing on a deck surrounded
by trees and people. His hair was the color of my hair and his face was as much
a baby as mine is. The other, sent two years ago inside the same
card, of him standing next to his dog. Her name I forget. The title
“Dad” scrawled across the back. “I hope you are well. Please write me sometime.”