Like the river of my hometown
winding
towards the sea and the oceans
beyond,
mile upon mile through Christmas
forests
and the small holiday towns of
Maine,
the memories of Christmas’s past
are long,
wending their way through the
chasms
of remembrance, nostalgia creeping forward:
Gram’s house, the old farmhouse on the
hill, an extended
family of aunts and uncles and
cousins, and a little boy of 3,
maybe 4, standing by the Christmas
tree, fleece-lined corduroy
trousers held up by suspenders, pant
legs rolled up, room for growth,
growing into clothes too big, soon
enough, and a flannel shirt, the little
sister, a baby still, a mom close
by, and an older brother, my brother,
the sounds and smells of dinner approaching,
clinking of glassware
and flatware and serving dishes
heavily placed, steaming with Christmas,
the hubbub of chairs scraped across
the floor, and the scramble
of cousins for their places at the
children’s table, paper plates and cups,
no fine China of adults, children separated
from aunts and uncles
and older cousins, earning their
coveted spots among the grown-ups,
and dinner done, the dishes, too, the
chairs moved to the living room,
as we huddle near the tree, a small pine, lights aglow and
tinsel gleaming;
this tradition of family Christmas
and gift exchange is somehow lost now
to age and death and growing up,
children into adults, moving away,
inheriting a custom gone in time,
but captured here, always in our memories,
remembered again this Christmas and
shared once more, today:
Christmas returning to Gram’s house,
the old farmhouse, an extended
family of aunts and uncles and
cousins, and a little boy of 3,
maybe 4, a little boy grown now, remembering
Christmas.
