Page 4 of 4
By J. Bradley
I rescue the rattiest bedsheet from a nearby clothing donation box. I trim it to where I think I could see Neil's knees and feet. I cut two eyeholes, arm holes, and a slit where I think his mouth would likely be.
Neil frowns when he sees the bedsheet body stretched taut between my fingers. He wants to say: This is the third year in a row. "Pretend you're your mother this time," I say.