A cake the first of many, I know now, but back then, just the one; chocolate shavings like fir leaves lying beneath the candle, the tree-top star, and above my hidden gifts lit lightly by the flame that sometimes flickered, and I giggled, and sometimes froze, so I stared, and when my grandmother beckoned, pulling her own lips to show me how, I blew once, then twice, and the third one swept the flame away staying gone no matter how many times or how deeply I took that breath back in; it left only its tiny gray trail, a scent that tickled and hurt, and the quiet laughter of a family that knew then, as I know now, that letting go starts with the smallest of things.