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.

dead letters for living people