“Noah?”
“Yeah, Mom?”
What year was it? Oh yeah, 2017.
“I asked about Angel Ramos.” My mother straightened the little ceramic kitty that commemorated Pocket’s First Christmas. “He’s not a boy anymore, of course.”
“No. He’s back in town and I’m hoping to see him.”
“Hoping or doing something about it?” Mom touched every ornament we’d hung, one at a time. Some held good memories, I hoped, the ones that had survived, like we had when others had shattered, like we thought we might. We never had replaced the one we got for Leo.
“Definitely doing something,” I said.
I told her about my thirteen days of Christmas endeavor.
“That is so sweet.” She touched my cheek. “I’m glad we didn’t ruin you for good.”
“Stop.” I hugged her. “Anything good about me, I got from you, and maybe even a little
