Christmas Day, 2014 (W.A. Hawkins)

None of us like tequila, but that’s what we’re drinking. Momma walked in and looked around a few minutes ago. Mumbled something about a brother we never had and shuffled out. Dad raised an eyebrow and filled souvenir shot glasses. Cancun, Gulf Shores, the Southernmost Point in Key West. Some places we’d visited with them, some we hadn’t.

“She’s getting worse,” he says.

It never snows in Louisiana, but it snowed last night. I woke up early, checked the tree, put on boots and a pair of shorts, and crunched through the brittle white layer covering the ground between the pines. I carried a crack-barrel 12-gauge hoping to see anything and nothing at the same time. I saw nothing.

My brothers have annexed every sofa and chair. A bottle of tequila appeared—nobody knows where it came from. A Christmas miracle somebody said. We drink it down and help Momma remember her gifts.


W.A. Hawkins is a writer living in New Orleans.


image: Jesse Hilson