Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Swinging comets for Christmas

I trace my finger
across the face
not of Davey Crockett,
but of the boy I used to be,
sitting up in bed
at four years old
my aunt's pretty face
hovering over me
holding the book
so I can see the pages
can touch each image.
she trying to be a mother
my mother cannot be,
trying to give me a childhood
my mother's madness stole,
All these years later,
you give it back to me
for Christmas in one big wooden box,
a small thin golden key
to a past I forgot I had,
unlocked and overwhelming
my heart aching for it
now that I have found it again
my fingers slowly tracing
those spaces where my fingers
traced long ago,
bringing back Christmas
and snow,
and all those lost souls
who have since gone on,
leaving me here
the way mother, aunt,
uncles left me,
ghosts of past, present
and future,
and only the tiniest chain
to drag behind
me into the next world,
me swinging comets
like Davey Crockett did

(best present I ever got -- even better than the bicycle I blackmailed my family into getting me when I was seven)

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