A wreath upon the fireplace for you I place
For you are not here this year
Joy to the World, for you we sing, but you cannot hear.
Dearest Uncle, no joy is here. For you are not with us this year.
Each gift unwrapped; unwraps a void left by the absence of you
A first Christmas without you
Morose is the heart. Recalling that New Year last, as you raised your IV tainted limb.
“Kiss me child,” to my mother you said.
In my dreams. I see your eyes.
Why do they water so?
And why? at nights? do I dream that I am drowning in them?
These questions I ask, as I place a wreath beneath the mistletoe for you.
Disclaimer: I do not claim ownership of the image above
