In Sherwood, Oregon
I went with both my parents
to a party at the neighbors.
It was a Christmas party.
The kitchen was
where all of the adults drank,
Rum and Coke, some kind of beer,
margaritas too.

We were upstairs
dancing to the Nutcracker Suite,
not caring about parents.
On the TV was the dull news.
And in the front yard were the
neighbors. Their party was
louder than ours and
and we could see them through the
windows, the people inside
drinking more than our parents.
We tried to sit still and
watch the anchorman speak.
“Santa is coming soon,
the reindeer were spotted
flying through Central Park
and they are coming West fast.”
We imagined them in the
air with all of the planes
carrying all of our toys.
He kept us riveted
with all of this magic.

Suddenly the adults
were with us upstairs
watching the window
looking at the neighbor house.
We thought they were looking for
the same Santa we just watched
but they were looking in those
bright open windows across
where the teenage kids were
drinking their beer too.
It was a magical,
secret event to them
because the alcohol
was served by a foolish adult.

We thought to ourselves: that our
parents were still just as young
as we were, just as thrilled by
the unexplainable as their
five-year old children.
We were the same people:
they just danced around the truth
while we danced around the room,
Nutcracker ballet.
In the darkness we spun,
them with their strong cool drinks
us with our tutus and socks.
Why were we both the same?
Why did we both love fantasy?
We were not ready to
become our own parents,
but yet we were watching
the evening news ourselves.
The next year we would be six
and go to kindergarten.
Why should we spend our days in
captivity like them?
We just wanted to dance,
round and around in circles
on the dirty playroom carpet.
We did not want to dance like them
around things that we did
not yet quite understand.