A Jack Benny Christmas

Working like dogs to get there, Finally she rested her warm skull against the curve of my neck. I say skull because the weight of her head had been appointed The Carrier of all Grief and Weariness in her pregnant body. It was then we rolled into our old rhythms. Our heads resting against each other While rivers of thought rushed into lazy streams. Warm light ran along the wooden columns that lead to The perched squeaks of young children belting out carols. All the while our one-year-old was putting on a show of her own Jack Benny would've had dreams about. There we were in the back of the church, Laughing on mute, upturned by joy.