Merry Christmas Eve and whatnot
Poetry and such
Well, you all failed me. Not a single Christmas-themed or even another winter-solstice-holiday-themed submission in my inbox. But it’s okay. It’s OKAY! It’s a season of forgiveness. I forgive you! But you might not when you see what I offer instead.
For this year, I dig deep into my bag of gifts and present to you the following…
(Here you need to scroll down ⤵) ((Oh and Merry Christmas!))
Content warning: this might make you intensely sad. Proceed with caution.
First appeared in Touch: The Journal of Healing—Issue 14
The morning after, the oven was on.
I woke to smoke alarms
and a deep haze. It was as if she'd never existed,
despite the cold Christmas sun
brightening the blinds.
After a run, her sweat smelled like flowers.
She would shower, towel off, forget to smile
but a wink was all I needed. A nudge,
a smack in the ribs. "That's dumb,"
she'd say when I told her it was dangerous out there,
the roads were bad, it was dark. It's Christmas
Eve, stay inside with me,
just this once. Now frost lines the crack
in the pane, dividing
it. I really should get it fixed.
A new window could change
things like drafts and high electric bills.
The smoke alarms sound too similar.
Flashing lights seen through the exposed bones
of trees. The sheet pulled across her face.
She looked so serene. I'd better get home,
or the ham will be no good. "Sir, your relation?"
"Yes. Yes she is." We didn't look alike.
Without kids, did we even exist? I have photos,
the memory of her skin melting against mine,
sweat beneath the covers. It smells like flowers
at her casket. It's a new year next week. Her presents
are still under the tree, the lights dark.
There's no memory in this. I should really
turn off the oven, maybe
get this window replaced.
—Grief makes for good drama. Thankfully, this one is fiction, although I’m sure folks out there have similar stories. The holiday season can be lonely and dark enough, but add in profound loss and it becomes unbearable for some.
The next one is more longing and pensive than straight-up sad, tapping into that ol’ youthful longing for another, and an old-timey tone.
First appeared in Autumn Sky Poetry—Number 12
My Last Ride through a Snowy Night
I saw you in the trees tonight,
in the ice-coated branches hanging like chandeliers;
you shone and smiled and waved at me,
and my heart feathered on a snowflake
as I waved back at you.
I would have gone to you,
but the sleigh carried on and all I could see
were shimmering twigs.
I saw you in the air tonight,
in a powdery cyclone beside the sleigh;
the speckles swirled in your shivered face
as you confused a frown into a smile.
I called out so you would know,
and I would have gone to you,
but the whirlwind subsided and your image eroded
like a sculpture of dust.
I saw you in the snow tonight,
in the tamped bedding of a deer;
your cheeks were ruby-swelled and channeled
with rivulets of ice as your hand slowly raised.
I extended my mittens to thaw your cheeks,
and I would have gone to you,
but the sleigh trampled the bedding, and on looking back,
all was lost in the wake of our passing.
I saw you in the clouds tonight,
in the muted whiteness and plumes;
but you turned your face from me
and let your hair purl in the wind.
I longed to gather and caress it and bundle it up,
and I would have gone to you,
but the wind wisped you away and the unshaded moon glared
through the mist in your eyes.
I saw you in the river tonight,
in the frigid water tumbling over ice and rocks;
your face was pale, your ears, nose, lips
so blue in the ripples and crashes.
I longed to warm them against my chest,
and I would have gone to you,
but we crossed the bridge as you frosted and splintered,
and its echo tailed me all the way home.
I saw you in the mirror tonight,
standing in the shadows of the cabin’s logs;
you cried at first, and then you waved;
not hello, but goodbye.
I flooded my cheeks and pled with the haze of your face,
and I would have gone to you,
but on turning around, all I saw were cold, dark logs,
with only my scarf left to hug me.
Looking for more Christmas content?
"Grief makes for good drama."
you are so right