Someone has to care enough
to do the grunt work.
Haul up the tree
Heave. Grunt.
Whip up the shortbread.
Beat. Grunt.
Dig out the toboggans, drive to the hill.
Wheeee! Grunt.
Cook the turkey. Shop. Wrap the presents.
Grunt
Grunt
Grunt.
Some years the off-stage magicians are silent,
but this year you can hear us
grunt.
Tonight amid the Christmas decorations
grief is hanging on our tree;
loss pummels
hopefulness.
Sadness hollows out my chest,
crushes my shoulders,
lodges in my throat.
Longing overwhelms.
There is no comfort
here, only more memories
of what is gone
who is gone
when is gone
where is gone.
Tonight is too much to bear,
so I’ll climb into bed and
trust tomorrow brings
solace and that much lauded
peace of the season.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
The dog stares mesmerized
past the old bulbs wrapped around the blue spruce, those steady, dependable glass bulbs that have illuminated twenty Christmases,
to the lilac bushes where the new micro-bulbs change from white to colour, fade, flash, flicker, urge us to celebrate with their “Party on!” dance,
but this year, putting them out
used all the energy we have,
and there’s no irony in the number of blue bulb strings wrapped and draped around the door.
Boxed up
memories, wrapped carefully
in torn tissue paper,
worn over years.
Boxed up
histories, revisited annually-
unwrapping melancholy,
tying it on a tree.
Looking forward to seeing you this weekend!
the mother wrote.
The greeting card holidays remind children
of filial duties.
Without them, would they ever call?
Text message comes mid-day:
Happy Mother’s Day.
An opening!
Mother replies,
When will we see you?
No response.
Cat’s in the Cradle.
.
Sacrifice. Care. Tuition bills. Sick beds. Pain.
And here,
A lesson in humility.
It’s strange how
Happy Mother’s Day
can feel a lot like
F-you.
A greeting card sentiment,
leaves a slashing wound,
sliced by a weapon wielded in a war
she didn’t know had been declared.
There had been no need to
clean the vase,
dress up for the surprise
brunch,
lunch,
dinner,
visit?
or even stay home to hang around the phone
so as not to disappoint
the kids
who call to wish
Happy Mothers’ Day.
.
.
.
(I’ve got a short story in my brain, but we’ll start with this.)
Far from home,
surrounded by brown desert,
in a hotel room, alone,
a podcast plays the annual
Christmas Eve story
and the holiday arrives
despite the lack of snow,
gifts,
cookies,
tree,
or children.
.
.
.
CBC plays this beautiful Forsyth short story every year, and I always have a little tear over it. The late Alan Maitland was a wonderful reader. http://www.cbc.ca/radio/asithappens/as-it-happens-the-shepherd-edition-2016-1.3907204
I hear your voice I see your smile
I’m glad you’re here to sit a while,
but when I turn around I see
that you are only memory.
So Christmas has come and you are gone
and day by day life still goes on;
though you are free from earthy pain,
Your absence grieves my heart again.
We’ve decorated the artificial tree
The fire crackles on the TV
Holiday cards show everyone happy
People gather smiling gleefully
to celebrate festivities
and it all feels like fakery.
.
If this is meant to be
a season all about peace,
then let me sit here quietly
alone but for fictional company
the only sound, fire crackling,
and I will celebrate contentedly,
avoiding family and all their expectation of responsibility.
.
.
I am an extrovert and I generally love being out with people, but when I’m under a lot of stress, all I want to do is sit in heated comfort by myself, and spend time in the company of book friends. All the obligatory holiday hoopla just makes me grumpy and anti-social, particularly with my dad passing away this summer and my mother suffering a serious stroke a couple of weeks ago.
This morning unfurling itself
I have awoken surly.
The low clouds match my mood
The sky is surly, too.
.
Inside the house,
the Christmas mess mocks
in its surly aftermath.
.
The snow plow
dragging itself through the city
scrapes with surly determination.
.
My surly swirl of grumpiness
has me in good company,
it seems.
The
house
is empty
except for memories
It’s really too much effort
setting up that Christmas tree.
The young folks all use email
so there weren’t many cards received
The avenue is packed with snow
that’s falling unrelieved
They won’t risk driving anywhere
on that they are agreed.
Celebrations are in the past
as memories are retrieved
That’s the magic of the season,
and the truth of
Christmas Eve.
.
.
.
Merry Christmas to those who are alone, working, or happily avoiding celebrations.
PS. The shape was supposed to be a Christmas tree, but I’m thinking it looks more like an elf silhouette. What’s your take?
Shawn L. Bird 