The Holiday Swap
The Johnsons call Christmas their own—
a mansion rigged with white columns,
gold trim catching the roofline’s sprawl,
each light a small fire of excess.
Emily surveys her kingdom, reaches
for a crystal snowflake on the lowest branch,
tilts it until rainbows scatter
across the burgundy walls. Perfect,
she whispers. It has to be perfect.
—
Three miles east, Maria stirs tamales
while Javier explains the ritual—
the mess, the laughter, Lotería
till midnight. Their tree is cardboard,
painted green, taped to the wall.
Their wealth is steam and proximity,
arms crowded around a table
too small for the love it holds.
—
In the Johnsons’ living room,
cameras track the sizing-up:
Emily in cashmere, nails lacquered sharp,
Maria wrapped in sunset colors,
a scarf that speaks of markets
she’s never seen.
Wow, Maria breathes. You really go all out.
Emily waves her hand, gestures
at gifts piled like monuments.
Tradition, she says. You know.
Tradition? Maria echoes.
Back home, tradition’s the gathering.
We make do.
I’m sure you do, Emily smiles,
and the kindness in her voice
could curdle milk.
—
The first night, Emily fails at tamales.
Flour detonates. The masa refuses.
She holds up a gray mass,
shape nothing like what she imagined.
Are you sure this is how you do it?
You need water, Maria says,
stepping closer. And relax.
It’s supposed to be fun.
Fun? Emily’s voice climbs.
This isn’t how we do things.
Across town, Javier pokes caviar
he cannot name. Maria eyes a quiche
that looks like terrain, like something
from a planet they’ll never visit.
Are we allowed to eat this?
Javier whispers.
Just pretend, Maria whispers back.
—
Brian throws his cards down
on game night, face flushing.
This is ridiculous, he shouts.
Why do we care about winning?
It’s just a game!
Maybe, Maria fires back,
because some of us have real stakes.
Not everything’s competition!
The words hang. The room stills.
Two families, divided by square footage
and what’s under it—
grudges and guesses,
walls built from habit.
—
The camera pulls back.
The mansion glitters and means nothing.
The apartment hums with what it cannot buy.
Under the satire, under the collision,
something unnamed waits—
a crack in the lacquer,
a door left unlatched.
They are learning, each of them,
that the holiday they were promised
was never in the decorations.
It was in the attempt all along.