I woke up that Christmas morning,
that year that I turned five.
Everything was blurry
due to an infection in my eyes.
The Christmas tree with colored lights
cast an aura in the room.
A half warm teabag on my eye
gave some relief from haze and gloom.
My brother set up his Lionel trains
on a wood board on the floor.
Any other brother might have resented
that I had so much more
than he did when he was little
growing up in times of war.
We all heard Mass at nine o’clock
at Saint Ann’s on the Hill.
Then back home to break the fast
Presents would have to wait until.
Simple gifts were cherished then,
not all bought in a store.
My parents were the working class
we had enough, not more.
The gifts may have been simple
but love came brightly wrapped.
Before sleep my father told me stories
as I nestled on his lap.
I’m thankful for the memories
which remain  undimmed by time.
but my eyes still get a little blurry
when I think back on Fifty Nine