I can’t shake this word,
appropriately fitting for this season.
Two different spellings
comes heavier this month,
the meaning more than any other.
I don’t know how long I’ve sat waiting
movement past fretting, worrying, crying.
My heart quietly expectant, beats along
while my tongue exploits Peter betrayals.
Over three times,
I’ve said, I don’t want this or that.
I want to cry when music, the holly,
jolly, put those bright shiny lights
around the tree and rejoice!
Santa is coming! plays over
my mind reel memories.
My dad turning on Andy Williams,
only to bust out in loud, joyous voice,
“It’s the most wonderful time of year!”
Wrapping papper scattered like falling leaves.
A Tony Hawk Playstation 2 game my brother
& I played nonstop, no matter how many times I lost.
I’d get so mad, he’d laugh, but I had such determination.
To cream him.
My brother, sister, & I, seeing The Polar Express
with my grandpa. Mountains of snow piled
on every street corner. Chocolate chip waffles
courtesy of Waffle House afterwards.
Me, my grandpa’s Lady Plushbottom,
riding shotgun through blizzard territory,
wishing the would last forever.
Fast forward to last Christmas,
no buckeyes plastered on cookie sheets
handed out to every laughing family member,
but doughnuts in a bag. Krispy Kreme?
I ate them to fill the void, the apathetic
holding it together during a shot em up, anything
but festive holiday movie void. The headphones,
Chronicles of Narnia, and expensive pen with my
name engraved didn’t do it for me. The temperature
wasn’t quite the tundra, but I sat out there, and said:
Please overwhelm their hearts with Your love.
Joy isn’t in this division, this arguing.
I said, I’d rather stay out here, then go back in there.
When after what felt hours, breathing in & out this prayer,
mom found me, told me to come in. There was food.
I went begrudgingly, watching this movie about prison.
Someone shot another blood red. I ate green beans.
Ham. I kept alternating between looking at the screen,
the floor. Down. Straight ahead. Down. Straight ahead.
I kept sighing, hoping either my mother
or father would hear. If they did, they did not
let on. I wanted to know if anyone else felt
their soul was dying. Their spirit.
Did Jesus mean a thing? I sat back against
the fireplace, keeping quiet, holding on.
Telling Jesus, this feels like dying.
I want Joy again.
And here I am, different circumstance, year,
grief a well, & endless groan
for you, my dear Friend.