A Christmas Poem (2025)

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.