Christmas morning

We would sit huddled at the top of the stairs,

under the strictest orders,

“Don’t leave the landing”

but inching forward,

we would declare the first three stairs fair game.

From the third step and a lean,

I could just see the avalanche of gold and red.

Presents spilling forth from the tree,

we would quiver with anticipation,

fidget in our pajamas.

Earlier my Da had thundered

“For the love of Pete”

“Stay outta here til 7”

Twenty long minutes later,

we debated sending the littlest one back into our parents room.

The sacrificial christmas lamb.

Surprisingly I can still feel the stair carpet under my scrunching toes,

still feel the warmth of my siblings crowded on the top stair.

Surprising, because  there is so much I no longer feel.

I have lost the urge, the desperate bond,

that we shared on those mornings.

I search absently for it like a lost key to a missing lock.

But can still reclaim that morning, that time.

A time when Christmas wasn’t a word,

it was something we could taste in the air.

when Christmas Eve meant fighting,

to stay awake and fall asleep simultaneously.

When the air crackled with the pagan magic of the season.

It was a time when I would wake on winter mornings,                                                                    roll to the window beneath which I slept,

and use my fingernail,                                                                                                                       to write my initials in the frost that had formed on the inside of the panes overnight.

It was a time when the cat having kittens beneath my sisters bed

was nothing more than normal.

When the nightly walk to the coal shed,

was marked with the possibility of attacks by beasts and creatures.

When the occasional stray hidden easter egg, could be found well into summer.

When spending our bus money on Cadburys chocolate,

constituted a wise investment.

It is, time that lives,

like a golden bubble in my memory.

A time, when neither pride or geography,

affected love of family,

because love was what we breathed.

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5 Comments

  1. Really, really enjoyed this blog. Love your poetry. Your writing gives me inspiration to become a better writer and to keep writing on those days that I feel I have lost inspiration. Thanks for sharing.

    1. Thats a hell of a compliment, cheers. I understand your uphill climb, believe me.This blog was in fact started by us primarily to increase our accountability and encourage us to produce(write).
      I tried to take a look at your blog but was unable.Dont beat yourself up, give yourself space and make sure you try and write something every day,even if it is simply a 20 minute free write/brain dump. Thanks again.
      Dave

      1. Thanks for the encouragement…I had changed my web address and what not a while ago and I think I missed changing it to the new one. Still a beginner to the blog and how to work one, haha!

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