You are dreaming of a brown Christmaswith people who have never trustedsnow. Christmas begins on the guitar,and ends on the windowsillwhere your unclesin your father’s hand-me-down T-shirtslean on their elbows until early morning.Here, the windows have no glass,protect no secrets. This year, you askSanta Claus for an alarm clockto keep you awake because you don’twant to shut your eyesto the stringed lights on the banana leaves,the paper lanterns dangling from houses,Fall on your knees, oh hear—Perhaps Santa is your drunken uncleimparting wisdom, beating his neighborsat chess, eating miniature green bananas,lounging on reclining lawn furniturewith his open shirt, in his wide openliving room, yelling for his children—whoare older than you but smaller—to comeinside and eat. Or, Santa is yourmother who arrived on the islandsfrom a German America in the middleof the night holding her groggy children(you) in her arms, making an entrancewith luggage filled with canned goodsand underwear. To the balikbayan,loneliness is given in return. A desire to leaveafter remembering the melancholic tasteof ripe lansones on the lips, howyour grandfather died before he met snow,and how your grandmother losther legs to disease. Fall on your knees, oh hearthe heart quiver on the stringed instruments.Still her ghost lingers, her legs reattachedby death. On these islands, white Christmasis a play on words. Santa exists in theory.But the dead exist in practice.On the dining table, leave mangos for the dead,rice, a plate of chocolate. Then, when allis quiet, listen for footsteps on the roofof their house, and do not shut your eyes.