ELIZABETH ELLEN, 1972

By

Elizabeth Ellen

There's this photo I found in the bottom of a drawer. Elizabeth Ellen, 1972, is written on the back in blue ink. Elizabeth abbreviated to Eliz, as I sign it now on the letters I write to you and never deliver. My grandmother's handwriting: Christmas, abbreviated to Xmas. I was three and a half then, seated on Santa's lap. My red jumper skirting my knees. My legs bare above bobby socks. Santa's right arm is wrapped around me, pulling me at once into and to him. His left hand encircles my wrist, loses it to his closed palm, obscures it within a clenched fist.

This is how I want you always to hold me: taut.

As though any loosening—of a wrist or shoulder—might result in my escape.

As though a moment's hesitation on your part and I'll be gone.