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Thanksgiving. The week before the eve of our seperate peace I watched my father climb to the top of the fir tree, and string lights of Christmas blue and red and green around the highest fir tree anywhere, while I with the great care of artistic temptation, would neatly place the long druping bulbs brushing the bushes below. Hold the ladder tight now Michael! he would call, while we both pretended that my little mittened hands were the true protector of a creative Christmas. I fell asleep on Christmas eve, after my eyes began falling away and my ears were closed in heavy silence by the wails going to and fro along the staircase. I was peeking over the banister and listening to the laughter of my mother and father and their guests in the living below when I turned away and walked into my room. The curtains were dim on the windows, with the trees moving outside them. Their branches were the same as the night air in their stark coldness and black movement against the dimness of a covered moon and stars. My sheets were a clean white ice I melted into, with my head on the feather pillow, that was like the skirt of a hospital nun. I pulled my blankets over me and snuggled up for dreams, becoming slowly warm with soft sounds holding me still under my window panes. After I was warm and close to sleep, I looked out over my blankets and around the dark green room. There were shadows on the wall that looked like spider webs moving just beneath the surface of the rough plaster. I let them twist their way across the room and through the windows into space. They ran across the air, and I slowly felt my soul being allowed to breathe again. I turned my head back into my pillow, and felt my fingers pull the covers over my hair. I lightly touched my cheek to the cloth, and went into a better dream. The