Sent very few Christmas cards, all of them late.
Wrapped gifts at the last minute.
Didn’t bake the cookies.
Christmas Eve, midnight,
under the influence of moscato
and the Robert Shaw Chorale
(voices from my childhood
singing carols a cappella),
I look at old photos.
Me and my sister, eight and five,
standing in front of the tree
Christmas morning.
I have uneven bangs, an unformed look,
cat-eye glasses.
Her face is all smile
and happy eyes.
She had 51 Christmases ahead of her.
We couldn’t have imagined that many;
I can’t believe they’re all behind us.
