I have no gift to offer that you don’t already possess, this
end of season, the up and down of it, when in the end we crave not the paper
hats, or streamers, the garland nor the tinsel, or even the pretty packages
seated in ribbon, we instead crave the silence of night, the peace, precious moments
we otherwise lack, we sit back contemplate who we are, and will be, not what we
were.
I have no gift to offer except my since, my distance, a
present wrapped in solitude where you can find solace, and I – still wounded –
can heal.
This present I give to you without your consent, no card in
your mailbox, no candy in your stockings, a gift you may not even know I am
giving, all the better for it, peace on earth, and while I may still feel the
pangs of regret, I expect you not to, expect you to accept this gift without comment,
or commitment, only silence on this holiest of nights, when even the mice
refuse to stir.
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