It was a bright afternoon, still early, the kind of winter morning when holiday shopping hits a fever pitch. The neighborhood buzzed, overflowing with offers of cheap “designer” perfumes and last minute deals.
I was standing outside the post office when I heard them. Not saw — heard.
“Mom, mom!” one of the girls shouted, breathless with joy.
“We can get it, can we? Yes, right? Pleeease?”
She couldn’t have been more than ten, nearly bursting with excitement.
Her younger sibling stood beside her, parroting her every move, not that she fully understood.
Then I noticed their mother.
She seemed to be in her 30s, frayed, like she was holding everything together with a whisper. But when she turned to them, her voice came out calm. Surprisingly calm.
“That’s enough,” she said.
“Whatchoo girls think? You be asking for all sorts of shit like it’s free, but listen,
Christmas ain’t free.
Christmas ain’t free.
Don’t say nobody told y’all.”
And just like that, the girls fell silent. So did the entire block, it seemed.
To this day, silence surrounds that memory of me, standing on that corner by the post office, the bright winter morning, and the somber expressions on the girls’ faces.
I have never forgotten it.
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