Once Upon a December

Branches bursting and bending,

weak under childhood’s weight on its limbs.

Batteries refreshed, though the music remains out of tune

in ornaments racking up years of service.

The drastic delay of the DVD player 

long replaced by streaming the movies 

infused in my bloodstream from a young age;

I recall television static reflecting the snow flurries

that once appeared beyond my window. 

Bits of chocolate hiding beneath little cardboard flaps 

await my daily morning descent.

Someone has updated the countdown.

The manger’s bulbs glow strong,

the classic white ceramic tree squeaks a cryptic note

from the unplugged music box hiding within,

and sleep again evades me that one fateful night.

Nothing has changed.

Has it?

Have I?

I inch towards the fireplace; 

I remember my bones once felt relief from this chilled ache.

I remember the family had never fit at a single table 

for Christmas dinner.

I remember writing letters over and over.

I remember snow trapping me in its claws, interrupting my playing. 

I remember what it once was,

what I once lived.

I don’t remember when it all faded

into what is now.