Christmas Past

Your impatient little hands are poised
to dig into the Christmas box
     Hurry, Nana,
     I know how to do it!
and in a flurry
all the  treasures rescued from childhood
are spilled onto the floor
     Ooh, I like this one, Nana.  Who gave you it?
     Can I hang something?
     I’ll be careful.
and guiding your hand
we hang stars and snowmen
tracing their lineage with proper respect
     Did Daddy used ta help you?
     I’m a good helper, Nana, aren’t I?
and I realize
no one has helped me usher in Christmas
since your Daddy got too big
and I struggled to recapture the wonder of the season
when so many of the adults
who made my childhood memories have gone
 

Grandma and Aunt Manda’s sturdy, round shapes
wrapped in Christmas aprons
bickering in the kitchen
as corn fritters and Ferdens
were whisked from pans
and dredged in sugar and cinnamon
Grandpa and the mashing of the potatoes
with the heavy silver masher only he could  command
 

Children dressed in holiday finery
my Turkey dress and patent leather shoes
brothers in little suits with suspenders
buzz cut hair
and the interminable wait
as grownups sipped coffee, told stories,
and ate pumpkin pie with whipped cream
I spun in the green-glass contraption
brought out only at Christmas
 

The delicate chime
of stars turned by candle flames
shadows swirling like a crazy merry-go-round
glinting on the golden rims of Grandma’s Haviland china
and finally, little brother collapsed on the davenport
eyes bigger than his tummy,
we’d gather around the real pine
decorated with teardrop ornaments in exotic, deep colors
and delicate spires collected in the 30’s
and presents were doled out.
 

Tired children and frazzled adults
bundled up to brave the cold winter air
and one magical Christmas Eve
returning home in the silence of new snow
to see Santa walking down our street
fresh foot prints starting in the middle of the street
as if he truly dropped from the skies
 

I wish you could have been there, little bug,
the old ones would have loved you
but maybe, if we’re lucky
they’ll come back Christmas Eve
to my house—once their house
as we make new memories
to warm you when we’re gone  

                                —Katherine M. Searle
                                  28 November 2008

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