Some Aunt or equally over-affectionate
female hovered over the child.
She blocked out the light. Her name
was something like Gertrude or Gretchen
with that growling beginning. She
made sounds at him covering him with sheets.

When he was fully covered, little Jesus would roll
around, he lived in that mound of blanketing
he died in that shroud of turning. Jesus
would laugh when Gertrude tickled him.
It was such beautiful laughter. We laugh
because he first laughed with us.

Then from Gretchen’s make-up-caked
face came the question, “Where’s Jesus?”
She said it with such fervor, lipstick jumped
from her mouth, “Where is little JC?”
Seized with laughter, Jesus felt powder
fall from her cheeks to his skin. Soft, it smelled
like laundry fresh from the dryer. Gertrude

or Gretchen would yank the sheet away from him.
Suddenly his face would appear, red and sweaty
from laughter. A child’s sweat, without water,
without blood. She would yell with the same fervor,
“I found Jesus,” and her life was different after that.