My childhood comes in fond waves of recollection.

The holiday seasons of Thanksgiving and Christmas were always my favorite times of the year. Times in which familial bonds felt their strongest. It was so easy and wonderful to be swept up in the whimsical magic of the holidays. Little problems or concerns are forgotten for the sake of repeating another year of well-constructed joy.

I would shiver with glee as we unpacked our three-foot-tall artificial spruce, set it on a stack of boxes covered with sheets, and decorated it with care. Proudly displayed in the window of our single wide trailer. Every night before bed I'd stare at it admiringly.

It ******* glistened.

My mother and I would piece together a jigsaw puzzle on a card table set up in our living room while watching Christmas movies on TV. It was humble, but I wouldn't trade it for anything.

I recall being upset one year when my father (correctly) guessed that I bought him a Buck Knife for his Christmas gift. He then made a comment suggesting that he didn't need another knife. It crushed me because I thought it was the perfect gift for a man I tried so hard to relate to.

Most of my childhood memories are filled with joy.

Pretending my G.I. Joes inhabited the branches of our softly lit tree. The elf and angel ornaments were either friend or foe and offered either shelter or a diabolical plot of destruction. The angel atop the tree (from my mother's first marriage in the '70s) was the queen that all the other ornaments and soldiers bowed down before.

She was a goddess.

These days I can't help but be brutally honest with myself and acknowledge that the connection to my biological family is barely existent.

There are no jigsaw puzzles.
No Buck Knives.
No glistening lights.
No tree.

Just me alone in an apartment with a glass of whiskey.

There was a time when I carried on the gleeful tradition of the holidays. With my own three children by my side, I carefully placed that angel from the '70s atop the tree.

I think they were as enamored by her as I once was. I could see the innocent thrill in their eyes.

I haven't looked into their eyes for over a year.

The naive childhood excitement of the holiday season is a distant memory. Now, these days on the calendar remind me of things I will never experience again. They gently, but painfully enter like a dagger between my ribs.

The wound is reopened every ******* year.

I look around and see happy little families shopping for holiday meals and gifts as I push my humble cart around the grocery store alone. I imagine them with a crackling fireplace in their living room like I once had; decorating the tree and listening to holiday tunes. Dancing and giggling.

I can't help but wonder if my children are placing that angel atop the tree with their new dad.

The angel their grandmother passed along.

Her broken marriage.
My broken marriage.

And still, that cardboard angel sits atop the tree spreading joy.

She's a goddess.

There’s this holly tree
That can imitate
Its shape to
That of a Christmas tree,
And every time I can’t help but state
‘Doesn’t that tree look like it wants to be
A Christmas tree?’
And all year round,
My co-workers laugh politely.

im a lil scared, my mom is unwell
i am reliving fears, i know this feeling all too well
each hospital visit, each tear filled eye
oh god why do you make my family cry
sadistic incision into my heart
idealistic vision into my art
i don’t want to feel good or bad, i just want it to end
i dont want to hear news good or bad, i just want to hold my mama’s hand
friends, family, it all hurts the same
constantly shifting frames, day in day out
labour hard, echo chamber scream it out
its hard, its hard, it hard
waiting for the other shoe to drop, wondering where is the next empty spot
in the christmas dinner, thanksgiving dinner
dreams of the deceased, am i a sinner?

we both got sweatshirts for christmas
i hope we can trade sometime

Christmas
as usual, buttered
with senescent conversations
this year fizzed with a citrus dialogue
of scrunched ears, hot water bottle hugs
and altogether too much hair
on the smallest head

Christmas isn’t about being happy.
Christmas is being grateful for the people who’ve stuck around for the ride…




Even if they get off at the next stop.