Page 172 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby

Uncle Rafe stands there with a hat that looks like a grandpa and a paper bag that saysNOT COAL.

He is my godfadder.

He says it like that because he is silly and from here.

He bends down.

I pat his cheeks with cookie hands.

“You are festive,” I tell him.

His whiskers are spicy.

His eyes are soft.

“I am at your service, Captain Sprinkle,” he says.

He hands me his whistle. “Hold this. Don’t blow it. Ever.”

I hold it.

I do not blow it. (I blow it later. Very softly. Only once. It is a mouse whistle. Nobody knows except the giraffe.)

Uncle Tino comes next with a toolbox that goes clink and a box of lights that goes tangle.

He says, “The door chime was flat. Now it is jazzy.”

“It is jazzy,” I agree.

He smells like outside and peppermint.

He fixes things without making them feel bad, which is a good trick.

Rosa comes up the stairs with bread wrapped like a present and says, “Don’t tell anyone, I baked for the wrong holiday,” and winks because baking is always the right holiday.

Nonna (my grandma) comes after, with soup and opinions in a pot.

She puts the soup on the stove and the opinions in her pocket for later.

She shows me herbs with her hands like puppets. “Basil. Oregano. Thyme.”

I give thyme a hug because we are friends.

Then the door chime sings again and it is Auntie Rizzo from Mama’s work.

She wears blinking lights like a very safe ambulance and brings a tiny sweater for my giraffe because my giraffe does not know winter.

Everyone is here now.

The house gets bigger to fit them.

The tree glows like a secret you can keep and also tell.

Daddy lifts me up, whoosh, so I can put the star on.

The star is glitter and bravery.

My hands shake from big job feelings.