Christmas at Eight
a poem by Donny Bailey Seagraves
The evening tiptoes on tiny elve's feet
each moment longer than the last.
Tall, green and magestic, the tree is not living
but not yet dead -- suspended -- embraced by twinkling lights.
Tinsel glitters, ornaments dangle.
Rich cedar fragrance tickles your nose.
Presents hide beneath festive wrappings,
quiet, mysterious. Some move inside their
boxes as you shake them.
Outside, trees look frosted. Grass is stiff.
Your warm breath makes circles in the damp fog on the window as you wait.
Carols drift on radio waves, Silent Night, Joy to the World, Silver Bells.
The words are familiar but not yet etched on your tender brain.
Supper is a quick sandwich and a cool glass of milk -- foamy on top.
A milky moustache is obliterated on your red sweater sleeve.
Is it time yet? You ask again.
Almost, your mother says.
Gather the presents, slip on your coat, cap and mittens.
The journey to Grandma's house begins.
The house is bright with lights and people.
Aunts, uncles, cousins galore.
Your grandmother's cheek is soft. Her eyes flash
childish joy. Grandfather is silent, but smiling.
Presents tucked under the tree. Piled higher and higher.
They tumble into the room with wild abandon, daring you to catch them.
Find a chair. A circle if formed. Drink the eggnog, eat the coconut cake.
Everyone talks, laughs, savors the evening.
To you, the presents beckon until, you hold one in your lap.
Heavy, mysterious. Red and ribboned. Rip it open. Expose the
Pajamas. Red and white stripes. Square and flannel. You are so
disappointed but still you smile.
This is a happy time even with disappointment striped and flannel in your lap.
Again, presents are gathered. This time, without their festive covers.
They ride with you in the back seat of the cold car
through the dark, frosted night.
At home, the house is quiet. Your bed bed is cold, then warm
a little at a time as you extend your toes until the warmth is as long as you.
Each moment floats like a snowflake as you wait.
Growing muscles twitch, anticipating the unknown.
Anything is possible tonight.
You still believe.
Was that a sound? Yes. A slight rustle.
Listen, did you hear it again? No.
It was only the sound of sleep sneaking up on you.
Float on your dreams until morning.
Awake. Did you really sleep? Maybe. Maybe not.
The house is silent, not yet breathing the sounds of
gettting up and breakfast. The bare floor
is cold against your feet.
You tiptoe to the doorway, then peek. The tree
reigns majestic over new presents. A bicycle.
You would have preferred red but blue will do.
A doll. Frozen smile. Plastic hair. A pretend friend.
Candy spilling from your stocking. Peppermint,
silver bells. Eat them while your grapefruit waits, sour in your breakfast bowl.
It is good, this moment in time. This special day of days. This Christmas at eight.
It only takes this to make you happy for now.
Copyright 2009 by Donny Bailey Seagraves. For reprint permission, please contact the author.
