Christmas Day

Tustin, CA

Christmas morning. It's 6 am, and through the window in the upstairs shower, a gibbous moon still hangs in the preternatural dark, scudding along with the force of the Santa Anas.

The Santa Anas, the mythical wind of my mother's stories. Yesterday was as warm as animal's breath and calm as a well-fed child. Today, the wind whispers, rustles and whines. It hammers and drives, whistles and moans. It flaps the flag on the neighbor's garage, it harangues against the tree boughs, it frets the impudent delicacy of the palms. It sounds out the shingles and the gutters like a mouth on a harmonica. It buffets the walls and groans against the eaves, pushing eastward for the mountains.