Love is like Christmas
The smell of freshly
Baked ginger cookies
From grandma’s kitchen
The brightly lit homes
Filled with welcomes welcome
The beautifully decorated tree
Holding gently
Memories of a lifetime,
Ornaments passed from
Generation to generation,
From friend to friend.
I walk down the quiet street,
Listening to the holiday parties
The laughter,
The stories
Of good times past
And memories of good friends passed.
Their lives continue
In the retelling of traditions
And of recipes recreated.
I walk down the happy street
Where tomorrow morning
Children will rise,
Jumping on their parent’s bed
Gleefully yelling,
Santa was here, Santa was here!
The living room will soon be filled with
Mountains of discarded wrapping paper and
The laughter of children
As they investigate the warranties of their gifts.
I stop outside my home.
The darkened rooms.
There is no smell of cookies.
No tree with brightly
Wrapped presents beneath.
Love is like Christmas for me.
Never had it, never will.
And the expectation every year,
Of what Santa will bring,
Of what love will bring,
Makes my home a prison,
Sentenced to my gloomy rooms,
Waiting for release.
I walk away from my prison cell
To a darker corner of my town.
Mrs. Wilson’s husband passed.
It is the first Christmas without him.
Their only son died in Vietnam
So very long ago.
She sits alone with a scrapbook,
And smiles with tears in her eyes.
Mr. Paneer’s wife left him,
Along with the kids.
She always trimmed the tree.
He didn’t buy one this year.
He wouldn’t, he couldn’t.
He drinks another round while
Looking into the empty corner.
Mr. Murry died last fall.
His house is dark.
A For Sale sign sits out front.
And that is all that is left of Mr. Murry.
I stopped.
A light snow falling down,
Seemed to glisten in the streetlight’s glow.
Dancing, dancing,
Slowly falling.
I held my hand out.
A snowflake landed in my palm
A moment before melting.
Love is like Christmas,
Like Christmas indeed.
From Sleeping With Macbeth By A.F. Winter
