You decide over dinner on the 30th
that you want to be a sardine.
I start to say it is too late,
but I spend my days saying no—
	no gum
	no more TV
	no to Kit Kats for dinner
	no, we can’t get a cat
		or let the one down the street into our house.
So, I say yes. 
Yes, I will stay up until midnight
painting cardboard silver,
fashioning fins and a tail,
pupils glued onto white cardstock eyeballs.
I glue ribbon from a long ago wedding
to hang the costume from your narrow shoulders.

You are nonplussed when you wake—
you expected this, a sardine costume out of thin air.
You slip it on over your pjs and start swimming.
You make it halfway down the hall 
before you stop, your eyes wild.
What about gills? you ask. How will I breathe?
And so I sharpie gills on the almost dry paint
and you can breathe again.