December 24, 2009

I remember the table-top
pinball game. Someone saw
it through a half-opened
door, and the speculation
started. Clearly it wasn’t for me.
I was too small – it would be for
one of the older kids who was more
responsible. Turned out they were wrong,
much to my delight.

Now that I have kids of my own
I wonder if they heard us bickering
and changed their minds,
just to see that delight.

I’d like to think so.
I won’t ask.

The stocking was made by a family friend
when I was born.
It shows its 38 uses with fading
dignity, Santa missing an eye
and part of his face.

I dig, first, past the chocolate,
the pencils with my name on them,
the flashlights and batteries,
for that mouthful of the tropics,
segmented sunlight
that tells me it’s Christmas.