My Cardboard Balcony

To My Father by Belinda Roddie The moments you manage to smile in pictures are precious; your beard is Father Time's hue, but the blue glint in your eyes is timeless. Your Pendletons and Birkenstocks are the pinnacle of California style. Your UC Santa Cruz banana slug tee shirts: Heirlooms. I want one. When you worry, your eyebrows, above all else, give the game away. You are not subtle in the slightest, and maybe, ultimately, that's where I got my own candor from. Truth is often understated, but you and I expose our personal stories on our hands and faces. When we drink coffee and hot cocoa together, we will wince when the brew scalds our tongues, and we will tattoo our wishes and woes on our skin, the ink as fragile as the paper napkins we wipe our mouths with. You are nearly sixty-six, and our lives are spelled out in tripulets and triads, just like the patterns you trill on the slender neck of your flute. You treat her so gently, producing poetry ...

Idyllic Scene by Belinda Roddie Picture it: Christmas music warbling like a drunk but sleepy aunt, the simulation of a fireplace emitting the pretense of warmth while simultaneously not polluting the air. By the pin-up girl tree, a single wrapped present sits, waiting for a friend, all while the black cat has turned himself into a loaf on the couch. Here, we sip Amaretto and cider. We mix Irish cream and butterscotch schnapps. We eat chocolate covered peppermint cookies and potstickers fresh out of the coconut oil-greased pan. The blue blanket we cuddle over may not be weighted, but we can still relax. We can still celebrate the Yule. And best of all, we can finally figure out what it actually means to rest.

by Belinda Roddie "And if you're extra good, the Christmas kitty will leave a special present under your pillow." "What? John! No!" "What?" "Do not weaponize our Zelda like that!" "What do you mean?" "You know exactly what I mean, sweetie pie." "..." "..." "..." "..." "...I have no idea what you're talking about." "You are not a good actor, John!" "You don't even know what the special present is!" "Oh, I have two guesses." "Okay. Name them." "One: A dead mouse." "Gasp! Aaron!" "What?!" "Zelda would never kill a mouse! She's too nice!" "Oh, my God, John, she's a cat!" "She's a very special cat." "Ugh. Fine. Number two: One of her fresh turds." "Ew. Aaron! No!" "No?" "No!...