Grandpa wondered if it’d be the same — carols, presents, reindeer found in attic, Dorothy shopping like crazy.
An overused engine's thrum, tired making million-and-more trips. Without repair or refuel, just the stink of body-bags.
Dad moved furniture. I was on a bridge strung between teetering cliffs, didn’t help.
Across, I ended up in autopsy room, except incision was made to pry open my brain. They concluded, “Cesspool of hopelessness”, admitted me, promised yearly trips as shadow of a huge red coat.