Christmas Mourning
Shame the bright way my parents bestowed Christmas magic
was not equally a part of every child’s memory package.
When grown and living close, Christmas joy remained parent sown.
Such delight seeped into their grandchildren’s holiday tone.
There were many special Mom things, many unique Dad deeds.
We would learn, one less the other lacked Christmas success.
No matter the duration of my earth-time endurance,
Christmas will not come again without heartbreak occurrence.
Was a Christmas day when Dad was gone to hospital lay
as a tragic three days crept up to take him forever away.
For twenty years we have self-persuaded our Christmas’ eggs
to be as delicious as the ones Dad yearly made perfectly cheesy.
On Christmas morn, one of us will sneak-stick a bow upon face
and when noticed all will laugh to feel Daddy’s trace.
Grief does not cease when gifts need mechanical or electronic ability,
no, at those times, our shared mourning cradles stupidity.
Christmas eve drives to tour bright lights, cannot be made right;
no one reports on Santa’s progress as Dad did with perfect stress.
Brother, sister and I need seek some Christmas eve side-by-side time.
We sit with the children we used to be, and all return eagerly
to floor sit again, like back then, by Dad’s candle’s dancing flame,
to visit the sweet Christmas times when Dad’s voice expounded lines
from the bible about Mary, Joseph, the manger and Christ’s birth.
It is a special sibling Daddy Christmas love-glow death cannot fold.
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