Elastic band practically reaching navel with ample coverage of backside in a hot pink.. the only remnant, arguably at best, of any semblance of ****…
more like a tribute to the past when secretive select gifts of lacy lingerie  covering only what was necessary were offered with anticipatory excitement…

Granny pants serving to be practical with not a hint of expectation….

Is this what we have become?

My son was six, the day we had to hear
The doctor tell us, he wouldn’t make it to the next year

He didn’t understand, and we didn’t know what to say
All we could tell him, was it was going to be okay

Our son loved Christmas, and the entire Christmas season

So we got an idea, the only one we could reason
We knew that this, would be the last thing he’d remember

So what if we turned June, back into December
Give him one last time, give him one last Christmas

Just to let him know, what a joy he had given us
We’d tell him a lie, and we’d make him believe it

It would be a task, but we’d have to achieve it
We sat him down, and told him the news

His eyes got really big, as he seemed to be confused

We told him that Santa, thought June would be better

So he better get started, on writing his letter
Later I walked down our street, talking to every neighbor

Asking each one, if they could do us a favor
Just for a month, could they put up all their lights

And then turn them on, for a few hours every night
I even offered, to do the work myself
Even if the person, wouldn’t offer me their help

Yet later that night, I heard my son cry
And then he told me, he didn’t want to die

So I reassured him, as he laid there in my arms
That God would protect him, and keep him safe from harm

Then I asked him, what was the thing he wanted most
As he wiped away a tear, he said he didn’t know

I didn’t sleep that night, not even a wink
Living without my son, was the only thought I could think

The next day, I got on the phone to make a call
To learn who plays Santa, every year down at the mall

Since we couldn’t visit Santa, and our options were slim
I knew that all I could do, was bring Santa to him

That night we watched movies, while we did little crafts
It was the first time in a while, I’d seen my son laugh

One of the movies, talked about angels getting wings
As everyone in town, cheerfully singed

My son then asked me, would he get to be an angel
My wife left the room, the question was too painful

I told him yes, and with that I promised
He then smiled, because he knew I was honest
The next few days, we’re a bit tough

His poor little body, had almost had enough
As I arrived home, and got out of my car
I saw a man down the street, putting up a tree in his yard

I knew my son was weak, and wouldn’t want to go outside
So I told him it was snowing, not proud that I had lied

I saw him smile, as he went back to sleep
Then I turned off his light, in the darkness I would weep

The next night we decided, to put up our tree
The three of us, my son, my wife and me
We decorated it, with ornaments and tinsel

I lifted up my son, as at the top he placed our angel
We wrapped it in lights, his favorite color of yellow

Then sat in the darkness, entranced by the glow
It was strange for sure, my wife and I thought
But this had more value, than any gift that could be bought

Next day I called a man, who owned a Santa suit
When I told him the story, not for a second did he dispute

He said he’d come by, and pay my son a visit
And when he knocked on our door, I playfully yelled, “Who is it?”

He walked inside, as my son was sitting in my chair
My son couldn’t say a word, all he could do was stare

I knew he wanted to cheer, he just didn’t have the strength
Yet he just smiled, with a wide ear to ear length

“**-**-**”, said the jolly old man
“You must be Johnny”, as he held out his hand

“Yes, that’s me.”, my boy softly said
Santa removed his hat, exposing the silver locks upon his head

“I heard from my elf, that you wanted us to meet”
Santa said, as he kneeled at my son’s feet

“I wrote you a letter”, my son said nervously
“Well, I’d love to read it”, Santa said with complete certainty

My wife then reached out, and handed Santa the note
As he read it, he seemed to get a tickle in his throat

He then looked at me, but I hadn’t yet read it
He had a look in his eyes, as if I might dread it

Santa passed me the letter, and I got my answer
I then read the words, “Santa please fix my cancer.”

My son wanted nothing, except the ability to live
However I knew that was a gift, even Santa couldn’t give

Santa gave him a hug, and then said goodbye
As he left I saw a tear, welling up in his eyes

“Santa will help me, won’t he dad?”
I said “I’m sure he will”, with everything I had

Nothing else was said, he just looked so relieved
He looked so sure, I knew it was something he believed

I carried him to bed, and there quietly he laid
As I prayed that his dreams, would carry him away

The next night, though the air was very heavy
I loaded him in his wagon, and asked if he was ready

I had another surprise, one that might lift his spirit
The smile on his face, said he was excited to hear it

As we made our way, out onto the rocky concrete
The night was lit, with the glow of lights on our street

Nearly every house, had put up their Christmas decor
His heart carried so much joy, I doubt it could take anymore

His eyes glistened, in the twinkle of red and green
It was like something, that my eyes had never seen

I never walked as slow, as I did then
Hoping that this moment, would somehow never end

He pointed and stared, and sat there in amazement
As together we traveled, down the stretch of neon pavement

A few neighbors, gave us a wave from their porch
As if to tell my son, he had their support

Then he asked, “Dad, is this all just for me?”
I tried to look confused, in a way that he could see

I then asked him, “What do you mean?”
He said that it was weird, that there was nobody else to be seen

There were no other people, no cars lined in a row
Didn’t they hear it was Christmas, why didn’t they know?

I didn’t want to lie again, so I told him the truth
So I told him, “Yes son, this is all just for you.”

“But why?” He asked, as I stopped pulling the wagon
He didn’t understand, his mind couldn’t imagine

“Because”, I said, “they all wanted to.”
“They heard you were sick, and it was the least that they could do”

When we got home, I took my son to bed
Then on his pillow, he softly laid his head

He then told me, “Dad, I think I’m ready to leave”
I said, “But you can’t, tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.”

He just smiled, as I pulled the covers up to his chin
He then closed his eyes, eyes he’d never open again

It’s been thirty years, since I’ve last seen my son
Though the fight was hard, it was a fight that he had won

I still miss my son, and I know I’ll see him soon
And every summer since, we celebrate our Christmas in June

****, clang, ****, the cash registers mixed with purchase bags, screaming children, and weighty wallets bleat out an all too familiar song,
We know the tune well,
Heavy debt, unhappy recipients, bloated bellies,
It’s all hard to digest,
Santa or St Nicholas, however, you connect to this festive season, how did we get it so wrong?
But it’s not all so bad when we stop and remember...
Love, connection, and grace; can we look deeper into each other’s faces, and
See the longing, step forward, and open our hearts to embrace the feeling of belonging.
It’s not a weakness, but a necessity, it’s humanity.
But while we compete with the almighty dollar, and with our eyes turned, disgusted by the revered collar,
That was meant to protect but became the perpetrator.
A source of truth, and a way to follow, taken from us,
By *******, power has corrupted and peace has shattered the illusion,
Santa and Nicholas may not have to leave the South Pole anymore, if they do, they may get the new familiar no-talent ‘****.’

This was last Christmas - 39 days ago - doesn’t that seem like ancient history?
We were in Lisa’s (parent’s) 50th floor flat, in Manhattan. It was mid-morning, we’d done the present thing, and it was coffee time. At 42°, the city was surprisingly warm, drizzly, and the weather service had issued a dense fog alert.

I had wanted a white Christmas and there it was, about 20 stories below us, a vast, dense, whipped cream sea of white stretching off into the holiday. The fog's surface wrinkled gently in places, revealing glimpses of the Hudson River, like an artist's fleeting brushstrokes. The pea soup brume undulated, like lava or a living thing and reflected the murderous morning sun like a mirror, making it klieg-light bright. Glare gives me headaches, so I had to avoid looking at it.

Lisa (one of my college roommates), her little (14-year-old) sister Leeza and I were spread out, under beige, vicuña throws, on one angle of their huge, white sectional couch and Lisa’s grandparents were nestled on the other.

A ‘Style Council’ playlist was playing on the room's sound system. Leeza had picked it and it was a great groove.
When “The Story of Someone’s Shoe’ ended, Lisa said. “That song’s so beautiful, honestly, it’s really lovely.”
“On God,” I agreed, (I’d introduced Leeza to ‘the Style Council’ last fall).
When Leeza said, “I forced you guys to like it, and now you do,” I just rolled my eyes.
“Well, your taste is usually so awful,” Lisa pointed out.
“My taste doesn’t need targeting here,” Leeza said defensively.

We all had our tech out - we young-ins were on our laptops; the grandparents were deep into their phones.
“I need to pick an elective,” I said, scrolling through the class catalog, “any ideas?”
“I took psyc 275 last term,” Lisa offered.
“Learn anything interesting?” I asked.
“Well, apparently Freud’s mom was hot,” Lisa said, distractedly focused on her laptop.

A moment later Lisa reported, “Texas Republicans are banning books about *******, because who does THAT anymore?”
“Women are getting ******-on by Republicans,” Leeza pronounced, and her grandma flinched as if slapped.
“Revelations,” I agreed. “We’re definitely getting ******-on by republicans,” Lisa undogged, while stretching.
“I think Republicans are the American Taliban,” Leeza pronounced, as if she spoke for all of Gen-Z.
“It’s a continuous topic on campus,” Lisa acknowledged.
“I’m not ON campus,” Leeza reminded us.

For a hot minute, no one said anything.. then.

“This is just my year, of, like, realizing stuff,” Leeza said.
“Oh, she’s realizing stuff,” Lisa moaned in fake sympathy.
“Her tenets are forming,” I commented dryly, like a news reporter.
“A year of realizing.”  Leeza reiterated urgently, like that was forEVER.
Then, refocusing on her laptop, she said, “I’m picking a song!” and ‘Water’ by ‘Tyla’ began playing.

Our solitude is always set to music.

on december 20th I saw an ambulance zoom down the street

five days before christmas
when the songwriter describes is both the most wonderful and hap-happiest time of the year
i saw an ambulance zoom down the street
and was reminded that death is real during the holiday season

and looking down the street it turned on
i saw the lights of the ambulance dancing with the lights of the season
dancing together
a sad bridge in a happy song

and i was reminded of a few christmases ago
my mom on the phone with her mom
my おばあちゃん (obachan)
telling my mom that she new she would be gone soon
and she was
and i miss my おばあちゃん (obachan)
more than words
and now
on december 20th
i saw an ambulance zoom down the street
i am reminded of her
and how death is real during the holiday season

the afters
scattered at ankle height.
bodies and turkeys and bottles
litter the 26th midday.
you’re still not here,
Saint Nick. Last year I drove you
to the north
but you said I couldn’t stay. duty called
& you wanted Christmas
with another loved one.

so I left my flat at midnight
with sweetness in my hands
raised;
to the sky watching
for a red light streaking unashamedly,
but the front of the doorstep
was not
darkened by a jolly frame.

the snow
withheld at cloud height.
maybe 8 billion people means
overtime.
maybe a no show means
it’s over time.
and writing a letter 9 hours after
you put the reins down
seems a bit desperate, don’t you think, Saint Nick?

the not days to new years
rupture at heart height.
the workshop’s shut, elves on annual leave. Loving like this means waiting
on an 11 month reprieve.
now the fireworks have started
Auld lang syne sung
but my arms hold the departed,
Saint Nick, perhaps is done.

so now im waiting
for another ** ** ***
and maybe
this one won’t love me enough
also.

My favorite gifts were all from Christ the Lord:
The midnight Scrabble game where U and I
Were side by side and face to face and high
On Christmas Spirit, cherishing the Word;
That great game of Oahu that I won;
That great game of Oahu that I lost;
The time I spent pretending to be Frost
Seeking a rime and landing on a pun;
The yummy apple pie perfectly baked,
Second to  ̶M̶a̶r̶t̶h̶a̶ ̶S̶t̶e̶w̶a̶r̶t̶'̶s̶  none, and made with TLC;
The morning coffee brought to me at 3
P.M. by her who kissed me as I waked.
My favorite gifts have everything to do
With, Bethany Elvira Vitters, you!

Lord show us the way
That we can best celebrate your day,
Should it be fun
For all of us to feel as one?
Or should we be sad
Knowing that we may at times have been a little bad?
May we please drink,
So that into depression we do not now sink,
Aware of course
That too much imbibed turns our chatter into morse.
How about the food,
Or would too much eating be quite rude?
Forget that thought,
As we need consume these lovely things we bought,
Also these folk
Will badly need the victuals for all the
alcohol they soak.
Sorry - now back on track,
Forgive the decorum I so very clearly lack;
But it is a joy
To share this feast with loved ones and on that I shan't be coy,
For while it is your day,
There is one further thing I must now say:
It wouldn't be the same
If we didn't come together in your name.
Thus please forgive any transgression
During what will surely be a long and roudy session,
For we toast but once a year
In the presence of so many we hold dear.
Hence let us raise our glass,
Before yet another Christmas simply pass,
To hail your glorious birth
And such a great excuse for this unbridled mirth.