
When I wrote this poem, I was contemplating how strange this Christmas season seems. How different, from all the previous Christmases. I cannot bring myself to buy a Christmas tree, to bake cookies, to play carols. I hesitate to celebrate, as if to do so might invite disaster.Â
This pandemic came thick upon the heels of my father’s passing, which was only a year after my mother’s. It has been a long slog through miry territory over the past two years.Â
I am not alone in feeling this way. The virus has dampened everyone’s enthusiasm, everyone’s joy.Â
But it has especially put a pall over Christmas. To think, that the numbers would dare to climb, despite the season. Or even because of it. As if to make some somber point: that in reveling, we plant the seeds of our own demise. Â
 Usually, this time of year is a happy one for me. But even in ordinary years, seasonal depression abounds. Think how many must suffer from it now, after the year we have had!
Take care of yourselves. Be gentle with yourselves and others. We will get through this somehow.Â
Meanwhile, let us remember all those, who once joined us at Christmas. And who this year, for whatever reason, cannot.Â
Thank you for coming by to read.Â
Two years ago
My dad drove up
To be with me
At Christmas.
And now he’s gone.
I’m all alone.
He’ll be with me no more.
Two years ago
He carved the turkey,
Clinked a glass
At Christmas.
And now he’s gone
To join my mom
Upon a distant shore.
Two years ago
I thought the world
Was full of light
At Christmas.
The Christmas tree,
It sparkled, and
Its boughs were filled with joy.
Two years ago
Seems but a day:
Now, nothing feels
Like Christmas.
How can this, too,
Be Christmas Day,
With those I love so far away?
For their return,
I’d give away
My each and every toy.
Copyright 2020 Andrea LeDew
For another poem, regretful of a loved one’s passing, read Forget-Me-Not.
I’ve lost both parents and my little brother. I’m feeling the same way about Christmas that you do. Your poem expresses this grief so eloquently.
Sometimes simplicity speaks loudest. Even the tidings of great joy were but the opening act of a sometimes sad story.