Christmases Past

Christmases Past

Previously printed in Out Loud Anthology III by Midwest Writing Center 2009

Your impatient little hands are poised

to dig into the Christmas box

Hurry, Nana,

I know how to do it!

and in a flurry

all the  treasures rescued from childhood

are spilled onto the floor

Ooh, I like this one, Nana.  Who gave you it?

Can I hang something?

I’ll be careful.

and guiding your hand

we hang stars and snowmen

tracing their lineage with proper respect

Did Daddy used ta help you?

I’m a good helper, Nana, aren’t I?

and I realize

no one has helped me usher in Christmas

since your Daddy got too big

and I struggled to recapture the wonder of the season

when so many of the adults

who made my childhood memories have gone

Grandma and Aunt Manda’s sturdy, round shapes

wrapped in Christmas aprons

bickering in the kitchen

as corn fritters and Ferdans

were whisked from pans

and dredged in sugar and cinnamon

Grandpa and the mashing of the potatoes

with the heavy silver masher only he could  command

Children dressed in holiday finery

my Turkey dress and patent leather shoes

brothers in little suits with suspenders

buzz-cut hair

and the interminable wait

as grownups sipped coffee, told stories,

and ate pumpkin pie with whipped cream

I spun in the green-glass contraption

brought out only at Christmas

The delicate chime

of stars turned by candle flames

shadows swirling like a crazy merry-go-round

glinting on the golden rims of Grandma’s Havilland china

and finally, little brother collapsed on the davenport

eyes bigger than his tummy,

we’d gather around the real pine

decorated with teardrop ornaments in exotic, deep colors

and delicate spires collected in the 30s

and presents were doled out.

Tired children and frazzled adults

bundled up to brave the cold winter air

and one magical Christmas Eve

returning home in the silence of new snow

to see Santa walking down our street

fresh foot prints starting in the middle of the street

as if he truly dropped from the skies

I wish you could have been there, little bug

the old ones would have loved you

but maybe, if we’re lucky

they’ll come back Christmas Eve

to my house—once their house

as we make new memories

to warm you when we’re gone

                     —Katherine M. Searle