Sears, Woolworth’s, Marshall Field’s, Kresge’s:
year after year, my father brought home another bulging
cardboard box full
of
dancing Santa in his sleigh, angels root tooting gold and silver
trumpets, raffia wreathes,
stars shooting up over Bethlehem, barber pole candy canes,
snow storms in silk spun crystal spheres,
spotted yellow rocking horses:
Uncle Mistletoe and Aunt Holly, red coat red-frocked puppets
with black top hat and golden granny glasses:
all this
holiday treasure he stored in stacks of boxes in the attic,
each tied taught
with string from his huge round yarn brown
ball of twine that slowly
slowly
almost never finally unraveled.
All these boxes I have tied and retied with the same old string
--I refuse to replace--
now dried and knotted each half foot where it
broke so often
since his last Christmas.
Now, without his hand, I unwrap every year what he spent on each
ornament but can no longer
buy:
memory: glittering
like something you can still hang on a tree.
Originally Posted On Site: 2009-10-20 11:14:06
Last Login: 10.28.09
Visits as of 12-12-07: 136
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