writing about place

Writing about place.
The tinsel on the tree is crispy and touching it makes my teeth hurt. The hooks on the ornaments are rusty and I am prissy about having to touch them when we are putting the red ball ornaments up.
The living room smells like pine tree and coffee and fresh plastic from the new dolls and toys. My brother, Rob, got a BB gun and he wont put it down. My sister, Rachel, got a doll and baby-changing table, which I think we are meant to share, but it’s not clear.
Mom got a fancy, fury, brown coat with a rabbit skin collar, of which she isn’t as happy about as you would think and of which he tells us not to touch.
When you touch the coat you are surprised that it’s not really pleasing, except for the rabbit fur part; this I keep walking my fingers through, making a little roads.
The wood flip top desk smells like lemon oil. I remember it was my turn to dust upstairs and I hadn’t. The multi-shaded green carpet sinks in when you walk on it.
In the morning light there is brightness from the snow that makes my sisters pupils go small to large as she turns away from the glass sliding door.
The hats are from a guy at the gas station my dad runs and he laughed when he handed them out. For a moment there was silliness, then it was gone again. The hats are made out of cans, cut into squares and sewed together with thick, brightly dyed yarn.
I am dressed and washed, but everyone else has their “nightybites” on and their breath still smells of sleep.