At Christmas

 

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. 

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. 

I am not alone in feeling this way.  The virus has dampened everyone’s enthusiasm, everyone’s joy. 

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.   

  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. 

Meanwhile, let us remember all those, who once joined us at Christmas.  And who this year, for whatever reason, cannot. 

Thank you for coming by to read. 

 

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.