I want a Christmas with my mom and dad
and sister home from school.
I want to go out and cut down the Christmas tree
and argue, once again, about putting the decorations up
because—good Lord!—who can ever get enough of that?
I want to go buy the presents that I’ve worried over
and dithered over and saved over and agonized over
(and then agonized over some more)
until I glow with the knowledge that each is perfect
and is exactly what they wanted, or needed,
or will want or will need or at least say that it is so.
But before the new clothes at midnight
and Mass and the choir and the cold,
before cracking the Gordon’s London Dry Gin
(to get the good children to go to bed)
I want to wait, just wait in the darkness
and sit there, looking at the lights
and listening to my mom’s favorite carols,
letting it all float around me
just as it did those many years ago…
every mayhem filled, loud, laughing, wrapping,
poking, hiding, opening, crying, cooking, praying,
yelling (and of course yelling back)
drinking, eating, talking, card playing and arguing
moment of it, joyfully, once more.
I wrote this poem in 2012 as a present to my sister, Cindy, and my father, Jack. Alas, my mother, May, is passed on and is no longer with us.
Christmas was a magical time for my family. What I wanted to capture was the joy and love that I grew up with. Our house was always chaotic but also a place of refuge, security and love. I no longer remember many of the presents that I received back then, but I will always remember the joy of being together.
Everything in the poem, is true: my sister and I arguing over putting up decorations, agonizing over getting the ‘perfect’ gifts, going to midnight mass and singing in the choir, coming home and opening the gin to make a pitcher of Tom Collins, a gin based-drink. For my sister and me it was made sweet and mild, just strong enough to calm excited children down. I was married with children before I realized the purpose of that drink was my parent’s sneaky way of getting us into bed!
But it is the music of the season and the lights on the tree that I remember the most. Well, that and being together. That’s no longer always possible but it is always the best thing I remember in my young life.
Thank you for reading Until we’re all together again. I sincerely hope you have enjoyed it and I humbly appreciate your visiting the Book of Pain. As always, I look forward to your comments.
© 2012 by John Etheridge; all rights reserved. This poem and accompanying notes are licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License. This applies to all original work found on this site, unless noted otherwise. The attribution claimed under the license is: © 2012 by John Etheridge, https://bookofpain.wordpress.com.