I’m a Scrooge, my wife says,
because I open Christmas cards
over a wastebasket.

I don’t like glitter
that falls off on my hands
or into grains of my old oak desk. 

Yesterday, I received a card 
with rainbow glitter
from my cousin-in-law, Gene. 

He visited in October, 
bringing strawberry jam 
made by Mennonites.

He sat on the couch, facing East Bay, 
and while we talked 
he said he saw a fish jump.

He brightened: he has always seen fish jump. 

He calls me Billy because Debby, his wife, did. 

When her cancer returned,
she stopped all treatment 
but consumed boxes of red wine, 
which he found stashed 
through their house. 

He choked up—and a few minutes later
saw another fish jump. 

Gene’s cards don’t need glitter.
His spirit shimmers 
like sunlight on the bay.