The Receipt Inside

I was nine. The wrapping paper red,

the tag still on it—fourteen ninety-nine,

white sticker, plain. I looked. Instead

of saying something, I kept my line

of sight just level, said thank you,

ate breakfast, let the kitchen stay

the kitchen. Coffee. A Tuesday

in December. Everybody knew

or nobody knew, or we all knew

and that's the same as nobody.

I drove home today from the grocery

and the man was coaching his daughter through

what Santa needs to hear this year.

His voice so careful. Hers so bright.

I bought my things. I drove. The light

on the price tag was always clear.