Wednesday, April 2, 2014

blinking lights on a plaid sweater.

I saw you, that Christmas,
by the tree, wearing a plaid sweater
your grandmother had given you
two Christmas’ before.
     
The one your mother insisted
you wear every Christmas since then.

You looked contemplative and pensive,
reflecting on the shiny red foil tinsel
ornaments dangling from the plastic
and metal frame
that was made to resemble a tree.

I said hello,
and you nodded an agreement.
I sat beside you,
joining in on the meditative
journey you had partaken in.

We sat for an hour before my mother
came over and told us that dinner was ready.
The family conclave was commencing
its yearly ritual of niceties,
and commentary on each other’s lives.
She smiled at you because you were younger.
She smiled at me because I was older.
She smiled at us because she was trying
to etch the image into her mind
for latter retrieval.
You made no motion to get up, and
I chose not to disturb you.

I remember you on that one Christmas.
We both sat there,
with the blinking lights
drowning in our eyes.
          
The presents under the tree, like swollen, ripe, fruit, fallen.