An Online Literary Journal for Poetry and Flash

Tag: family bonds

A How-To Guide on Decorating Our Christmas Tree

Nonfiction by Andrea Figueroa-Irizarry

  1. Look for the gardening gloves in the garage. There will be three pairs, and one has a hole in the palm where needles can enter. Your stepdad will usually volunteer to take that one.
  2. Wrap your arms around the middle of the tree once it’s halfway off the back of the truck. Lift with your legs.
  3. Walk it across the yard and through the front door. Some needles will scrape off the doorframe. Your mom will already be ready with the broom.
  4. Your sister will hold the stand steady while you and your stepdad right the tree and lower it in. There will be four screw bolts on the sides—turn them clockwise until the metal connects with the trunk. Don’t stand up right away, though, as you might need to readjust until your mom and sister deem the tree straight enough.
  5. Decide between two tree skirts. (You’ll always choose the red one.) Connect the Velcro on either side of the stand.
  6. In the blue tub marked X-Mas Lights, you’ll find string lights bundled around a dozen paper towel rolls. Plug one into the wall. Once you find one that works, hold each end on your index fingers and follow your mom as she weaves the green cables through the branches. Start from the top. Be ready to bring the next roll.
  7. Put the fragile ornaments near the top and the wooden ones near the bottom. The dogs will start to sniff the needles as Mom sweeps them; their nose will bring them to the bottom row of branches, and their wagging tails will likely knock a few down.
  8. Most of the ornaments came from your grandparents, your mom will say. Some of them, like the brassy cherubs playing on lyres or the crystalline doves in mid-flight, will be pointed out more than others. Care for these the most.
  9. End with the ornaments in the red and white boxes. One is dated for your parents’ wedding anniversary. Another shows a soccer ball and two hanging cleats from middle school. Two more have a cap and gown for you and your sister. You will not mean to, but the ones for the dogs will go up last. You will always make sure to bundle them close together on the tree.
  10. Decide between the tinsel ribbon or the checkerboard ribbon. (You’ll always end up with the tinsel one.) Follow your mom around the tree as she pinches and curls the ribbon around the ornaments.
  11. Place a few more ornaments. Change a few others. Make sure your name is near your sister’s.
  12. Position the dogs under the tree. Take videos and pictures. They will move, and most of the photos will be blurry, but when you look back on those moments, you will hear your family’s laughter blend with the holiday music in the background.

Andrea Figueroa-Irizarry was born in Puerto Rico and raised with a North Florida accent. She writes fiction and nonfiction about mental health, family, and relationships, and she is currently studying for her MFA at the University of South Florida. When not writing, she can be found cuddling her basset hound.

Tony Told Me

Nonfiction by Susan Mannix

I remember the moment. The look he gave me through the iron bars of his stall, straight in my eye, said it all. “It’s time to let me go.”

But I wasn’t ready, no one in my family was, most of all my sixteen year-old daughter Lauren. Tony (Registered Jockey Club name: Spartans Pride) was her heart horse. The one we searched for and she chose. The one who started making her dreams come true. I remembered how her face lit up in surprise and delight as she ran across the grass parking lot to our trailer. “Mom, I won! I won! My first blue ribbon!” She held it up proudly. That was a year ago and just a month after we bought him

What a day that was. 

So different from today.

 Tony started showing signs of discomfort earlier while Lauren was at school. “Camping out” (stretching his hind legs behind to relieve abdominal pain), pawing, pacing. This wasn’t the first time with him and I waited for it to pass like it usually did.

It didn’t. The pawing became more frantic and he started to roll. 

Phone in hand, I ran out into the paddock and hollered at Tony. He popped up and as I lead him into the barn, I called our veterinarian. In the twenty minutes before he arrived, I walked Tony around in the front of our barn to keep him from rolling, which could cause a deadly twist in his intestine.

 The vet determined it was an impaction – a blockage caused by a mass of grain and hay in his gut. The only thing to do was pump mineral oil and warm water in him in hopes of loosening it. Once done, Tony was given a dose of Banamine, an equine pain reliever. 

The wait began. I checked him often, relieved to see each time he was comfortable. He even passed a little bit of manure – another good sign. Once the drugs wore off in a couple of hours, we’d know more. 

The pain returned. Then came the on-call emergency vet. By now Lauren and her sister, Brooke, were home from school and had set up in the barn with a close friend to keep constant watch on Tony. More mineral oil and Banamine, Another wait. If this didn’t work, the only option was surgery.

“He seems more comfortable.”

“I bet this will work.”

“Look, he’s nosing around for hay. That’s a good sign.”

Statements of hope that were delivered with eyes that were desperately grasping for reassurance. To each one I nodded vigorously and gave an enthusiastic “Yes, I agree!” I sent the girls up to the house for a quick break and stayed behind.

The soft spring air and the chirping of the tree frogs could not ease the heavy stillness of the barn. Darkness pressed in on all sides.

I looked into Tony’s face seeking a way to push back the darkness. Our eyes met. Mine begged him to get better; his said it’s time to face what’s happening. That’s when he told me, even though he stood quietly. 

Hours before we loaded him onto our trailer and made the fifty-minute drive to the Marion duPont Equine Medical Center in Leesburg. Before his worried, scared eyes said “I can’t do this,” as veterinary techs took his vitals. Before the staff prepped him for emergency surgery, his body wracked with pain. Before my daughter sat for hours on the cold hard floor of a dimly lit hallway, offering up her dreams so her horse could graze once again in our pasture. 

Before the phone call that woke us after only two hours sleep.

Before the desperate voice of the veterinary surgeon came through the receiver begging for permission to let him go. 

Before I knew it was time, Tony told me.


Susan Mannix is from Maryland, where she lives on a small farm with her family and menagerie of horses, dogs & cats. Formerly a biomedical research editor, she is now working towards a Master’s degree in creative writing from Wilkes University. Find her at susanmannix.com and on Twitter at @lynsuze.

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