“The world feels naked without Christmas.”
It’s ten degrees on this the Lord’s day. I stare at an open Christmas tree lot, remembering what she used to be. I am missing her radiance in this evergreen winter.
Even Walmart is most beautiful on Christmas.
Daddy searches the Redbox for a needed night of something else. Groceries snuggle in the back and get to know each other. The kids and I resume the waiting.
This is poetry.
It’s become the winter joke that began the night I told the kids to breathe in deep and smell the cold. We were in the van then too. “Mom, you can’t smell cold”, they all said.
Oh yes you can.
“Kids, this is poetry”, I said. “Something always is like something else.” One of the boys pipes up, “You mean, your hands are like my butt?” Somehow this is lovely.
Laughter fills the van.
Even after all these years I’m still laughing at the butt jokes. “You’re on the right track”, I tell him. Even Daddy laughs. Some things never change.
“It’s a wood-burning fire, mom.”
Now we’re getting somewhere. This is what the glowing of cold smells like. The laughter dies down. The boy tries again. “You mean, your hair is like a flock of goats?”
Daddy looks at me across the dashboard.
I smile big.
That’s exactly what I mean.
Your hair is like a flock of goats leaping down the slopes of Gilead.
~Song of Solomon 4:1~