Vigils of roof top snowmen,
my father boiling clementines, and other 
ways Santa Claus finds our house.

Pecky the snowman made a pilgrimage every
year with my father-- they drank beer
with each other our on the cold
porch around the glass table--
Pretended it was July
and tossed bottle caps off the roof 
like sleet or hail-- they laughed when 
my brother and I mistook the 
their sound on the drive 
for bells-- bells or quarters--
I asked my mother if she heard them
and but she was too busy lighting purple
advent candles only to blow
them out again and again--
never enough of a flame-- when do
we light the pink one? when do we 
stop pretending we don't hear
bells? When we we start counting 
the caps of beer bottles instead
of making them into bracelets
--she read prayers from
the flaps of the chocolate calendar--
as my brother and fought over the candy--
I have always said and believed
I heard bells on our roof-- 
but it took me till I was thirteen 
to know it was only the bottle caps 
and the knuckles of the house cracking
in every pipe as the flowy skirt 
of winter kicked frost in our eyelids--
I taught myself to sleep to the sound
of an alarm clock calling me "fat-girl"
and calling me "sugar-cookie face"
Our house swaddled us in couch stains
and space heaters while my mother tried
to knit a blanket big enough to
hold December together without more
lost mittens-- we are a family of 
lonely gloves and coat pockets--
My father scrambled up the gutter with the plastic
light up snowman on his back--
landed on our roof and clung to shingles
to establish our families beacon--
our offering to the fat God we dressed in red and white--
Wrote letters asking for less beer bottles 
to trip over in the living room--
and less ribs for me to keep track of--
There was a time where he could find me what 
I wanted--- plastic Brachiosaurus
alien print guitar straps-- 
Santa Claus knew if my father when the 
house would smelled like clementine and cinnamon--
No-- not home after work-- I mean home--
like he felt at home-- our house is a
building full of people that waited
till December to try enumerate a home
from the structure-- my father built 
the walls with brown bottles
and diet coke cans that shivered when 
the wind is too strong-- my mother 
still trying to keep an advent wreath
long enough for us to listen to the 
approximation of a prayer 
or the sound of bell-- all the while 
the snowman on our roof tottered 
back and forth and blinked his light
to signal a landing-- he called snowflakes
onto the walls of the living room--
oh yes my father and the snowman knew
so much about each other-- more
than I ever will because I have
never braved a November roof top
with him-- I was too busy trying to figure
out if I could Santa Claus or my father
or an advent wreath for less bones
to search for under my skin-- this flesh 
that has only grow more and more
like sugar cookies-- I'm scared of the
milk chocolate of advent calendars
and I'm wondering if my fat God read
all the letters I pleaded into the 
mouth of a mailbox-- did my father climb down
my chimney only to realize his daughter
wrapped up in a corner between space heaters--
counting her ribs as her mother counted
the advent candles-- lighting the pink
on as promise and undoing another
line of stitches in our blanket--
he boiled clementine peels but the house
still smelled something like all of
our fears-- and the nervous cracking of
our knuckles in the walls of this building
we were building into a home--
Now I don't live there but in the morning
it still smells like clementines and cinnamon--
my father still climbs down my chimney
and wraps up apologies for what my
skin has done to me-- apologies for
the bells we made on the driveway and when 
I drive home Pecky looms from the rooftop--
sulking with the dim flicker of his dying
light bulb as he tries to signal S.O.S.--
Save our Sun-room: 
for the aluminum tree 
and the color-changing light-- I'll be there
I'll be there stronger than a lilting advent wreath--
And my mother always manages to make some 
sort of a blanket even if it's only out
of tinsel and mason jars--
I'll be there 
I'll be there for our worship of our
two Gods-- 
one in white and red
and one who put the snowman on the roof--