She must’ve argued
With her husband
Or she wouldn’t have
Left his bed that night.

Or maybe the pressures

Of the season of giving
Made her melancholy
Since they had so little to give
To so many.
Whatever the reason
I was glad for her company.

She made a little nest
Of worn blankets and quilts
On the floor beside the close
French door
That led into the living room.
Where the Christmas tree stood
Smelling of sticky cedar sap
And twinkling in multi-colored lights.

“I love you, Momma.
Do you think he’ll be here soon?”
And, “Don’t let me go to sleep, okay?”
We lay there quietly, and whispered
So that Santa wouldn’t hear us.
When I drifted off I thought
Her eyes were glistening wet
But why would she cry?
It was probably the light
Reflecting through the glass
As silvery icicles softly swayed
On cedar branches.

I woke in my warm bed
On Christmas morn
Then rushed across the cold
Hardwood floors of the living room
To find a dolly and a tea set
Under the tree for me.
There was a maroon dress
With black and gold stripes
And a velvet bow tie at the collar
Draped across the rocking chair.
Santa’d forgotten to wrap it.
He must’ve been in a rush.

My little sister played
With her dolly and tea set
And my brother built cabins
With their Lincoln logs
While Mom and Dad watched their brood
Revel in small Christmas treasures
Such as these.

Sometimes around Christmas, I could feel some tension in the air. I would wonder why my father was not always in a good mood around the season.