The girls may have been 4 and 7; their mamie was in town,

winter, Christmas Eve, 2003.

We had live lobsters swimming in a pot most of the day.

Jordyn watched the claws open and close slowly.

“What does a lobster eat?”

I had to look it up.

And when 7 o’clock rolled, my mother in law filled a great big pot with water,

turned up the flame high, and salted the water.

I kept the children entertained with decorating dessert.

At lightening speed, before we could recover, she tosses the lobsters in,

quickly takes them out and slams them onto a platter, stabs them

down the middle, with a butcher’s knife, one, two, three, four,

crack, split, crack, split, crack, split, crack split, her hair tossed back.

I turned my head to look at them, their little mouths agape, eyes

wide open in disbelief and dismay, stilled by the violence

they had never seen before; a Christmas they always remember.

Add a few more dollars to the therapy jar–and more.