My Cardboard Balcony

My Mother's Christmas Tree by Belinda Roddie My mother's Christmas tree was very small, not even reaching the top of my knee, and propped on a table against the wall in the living room. That sad little tree was hardly decorated, and its star was lopsided atop it. I could tell that my mother hadn't tried very hard to do anything festive. It was Hell in her mind right now. She could barely think straight, talk in complete sentences, or sleep without pain creeping in. She'd turn to drink as if it'd ease the agony. I'd keep an eye on her in case she needed me, but otherwise, I sat beside the tree.

It was a rather daring business venture, I had to say myself. And truthfully, I wondered if Sasha had the actual gall to carry it out. Sasha had always been somewhat of a revolutionary salesperson. They were genderqueer, queer by sexual orientation, and biracial. No one expected them to walk through a door in a suit, shake a person's hand, and announce, "Hi, I'm the one who runs the show here," but that was what Sasha was, and they were phenomenally good at all things profit-wise.