Despite two feet of snow we charge outside – no coats – with party-favor bubbles. Today's her birthday. The steam of our breath smokes the soap-globes. Inside the house, turkey grows cold. A thin film of fat glazes gravy. Against snowfall bubbles rise like sturdy old planes, disappear. My wife's swinging arms shed diamond balls. Over and over we laugh, blow into plastic wands our breath and cares to shimmer and balance like light on knife blades of air.