badgered by our granddaughter

age ten, almost eleven, going on thirty

to put up the decorations early, you

coalesce with hidden resignation,

~

an artificial tree, older than she, sleeps

in the garage in a plastic sarcophagus

bought last year when the old cardboard

box finally disintegrated,

~

we open the Pandora’s box of memories

recalling perfectly where each and every

 item was bought,

~

the four tiny glass angel carol-singers

from Australia of all places; the clear glass

melting icicles from the special Christmas

shop in Riquewihr, your favourite and the

little painted drum from a curio shop

in Nantes,

~

as the tree is lit and fully dressed with

reminiscences from similar places and times,

each bauble passed hand-to-hand carefully

between us,

I wait,

~

I know it will be left until the very end,

the tissue-paper playschool angel

Laura made just for you fifty years ago,

fragile as a butterfly,

~

she always makes us cry

 

© Graham R Sherwood 11/24