Solo Christmas

This is for the homes of the alones

The lost and lonely and bereft

Still mourning in their Sunday best

Or lounging in their worst attire

Whatever

Details aren’t as important as simply being solo

Hermits and rustics

The quirky and the mean

Fearful or fearsome

Many paths lead to this singularity

Homes where festive décor becomes a minimalist vestige

And the former glory remains in boxes in the dark

In the homes of the alones

Christmas creeps in and out of view

Never quite hitting the high notes

Or shining as brightly as those lost years

When doors banged and music poured down the stairs

Into a swirl of anticipatory frenzy

Lives twirling in choreographed ritual

So that each golden moment glowed with the magic collectively conjured

Not like now

When there is no more Christmas morning creep

When the few gifts under the miniature tree

Hold no mystery

And no matter where you go for Christmas Dinner

The silence of the morning

Flattens the rest of the day

 

David Trudel  © 2012

 

 

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