Page 174 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby

I present each guest with my art, one drawing of a forklift (accurate), one drawing of a cookie (still life), one drawing of us (me very tall—my parents are medium).

I write my name even though myusometimes takes a walk.

Rizzo says, “This is going on my fridge in a frame made of other magnets.” Tino says, “You captured the forklift’s soul.”

Rafe puts his in his chest pocket like a shield.

Nonna cries and says there is dust and also I am perfect.

Rosa tells me the cookie looks delicious and tries to eat the paper.

I do not let her.

We sing.

Auntie Rizzo is loud and shiny and wrong on purpose.

It is good.

Uncle Rafe sings very quietly like a secret.

Daddy does the low part that makes the floor hum.

Mama hums without words, and I lean on her and feel the hum inside both of us.

When the song goes “sleep in heavenly peace,” I yawn so big I see my own brain, which is pink and sticky and full of cookie plans.

Everyone laughs the soft laugh.

Daddy picks me up.

I am heavy and he is strong, but he still grunts because he likes to brag.

In my room the night light is a moon that learned manners.

We read the forklift book because it is the best book.

Daddy does all the beeps and the backup noises.

Mama does the part about safety goggles because she is a nurse and everyone on earth should wear helmets and drink water.

“Tell me the story,” I say, even though I know it.

Mama tucks my blanket and tells the Christmas Eve story where there were bells and snow and I yelled a lot before I learned words and Daddy said thank you to the ceiling.

I know this one by heart. I like the parts where everybody was brave and Auntie Rizzo threw coffee at a man once in another story and the hospital sang a song just when I arrived.

I always ask if the wise man ever got his cocoa.

She says he did.

“Tomorrow, pancakes,” Daddy says.

“And Rosa’s pastry by accident,” Mama says.

“And soup from Nonna and a nap for Rafe and Tino will change the door song again,” I say, because I am the Looker.

“ProbablyWe Three Kings,” Daddy says, “but in secret jazz.”