It is Christmas Day … One of my sisters birthday is today. She is my Irish twin, born less than a year apart. We don’t talk as often as I’d like, but I love her with all my heart. We always celebrate her birthday Christmas Eve and her husband makes this amazing Chicken Cordon Blue. I could eat just that, leave all the other stuff behind, and be one very happy man. Family comes in, from where ever they can. We eat, have a great cuppa or three and exchange gifts. Seeing the kids open their gifts, their joy and excitement, is a highlight for me. I am a fan of tradition, knowing where we come from matters.
• ˚ •˛•˚ * 。 • ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ • • ˚Merry★* 。 • ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ • •。★Christmas!★ 。* • ˚。 ° 。 ° ˛˚˛ * _Π_____*。*˚ ˚ ˛ •˛•˚ */______/~＼。˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ •˛• ˚ ｜ 田田 ｜門｜ ˚
Cherish the Mystery
by John O’Brien, Jr.
Ghosts of Christmas past, go floating through my brain
I remember cold and snow, yet remember not much pain Joyful childhood, waking up Christmas morn’
Delivering the paper, before the wrapping could be shorn
The house all dark but the tree lights still lit.
Not a sound in the sharp air, as I pull on my mitts
Bag over my shoulder, paper in my hands
Had to be in the door, not today’s “wherever it lands”
Quiet, so quiet, but this one morn I’m not afraid
I think not of dark driveways or who hasn’t paid
The stillness so peaceful, I try not to make a sound
I’m all alone in the world, as six a.m. comes around.
Up the long driveways and then back down them again,
Can’t jump the snow high on the grass, stuck like a pig in a pen
Broom hockey shoes keep me from falling, on my ass, in the snow
No matter how I hurried, I went much too slow
Frozen and often wet, I’d turn the corner for home
My mind is on presents, and Christmas past poems
The last paper’s delivered, each door tightly closed
My Irish cheeks look like Santa, the weather has rosed
I trudge up the hill and see my dad at the door
My mind sees those less blessed, many reasons for the poor
The houses in the neighborhood with no presents or a tree
My world’s not so cold, I’m starting to see.
Into the house I go, my bag hung on the stairs
One sister wakes up the others, who come down as a pair
Warm clothes, thick socks, and hot chocolate whipped to a foam
Rush through breakfast quickly, eyes to wonder and to roam.
My stocking off the fireplace, filled with fun little gifts
Then under the trees too sharp needles, the attention snaps and shifts
Clothes and cool games, wall holders for my collection
We each had our spot, our haul’s own little section
And when it’s all over, put the wrapping in the bag
Mom always says: “for thank you’s keep the tag”
Tho’ my sister is all tired, as my mother did warn her
I lean back against the wall, in my section in the corner
I think of the morning, from high chaos to early still
Of the food and the company, that this day will fill
The smell of the turkey, reaches me as I stretch out
Such wonderful memories are without a doubt
The reason I still cherish Christmas, and the still of the morn
Jesus works in mysterious ways, since the very night he was born.
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