Accumulation

When the couple bought the ornament
for one of their first Christmases together,
it was nothing special, just part of a box
of a dozen cheap red and gold bulbs
that they could afford at Woolworths.
Now, it’s the only one remaining of the set,
having withstood pets, toddlers, teenagers,
parties, grievings, packings and unpackings,
and its survival has made it precious enough
to store in tissue and handle like a reliquary.

In the future, after the couple dies,
at some point, the children or grandchildren
will have to decide who gets it and all
the other decorations. They might fight
over it, or perhaps they will pass it around,
or it will be put in a pile with clothing,
books, dishes, the bric-a-brac that eddies
into a life and gets sluiced to a Goodwill.
One day it probably will be shattered
in a moment of clumsiness or conflict,

but, for now, each December the aged bulb
is unwrapped, held aloft for contemplation,
then placed in the boughs among the others,
ones made as elementary school projects,
ones given by family, friends, colleagues.
Ornament by ornament, a tree becomes
an accumulation of memories, transforming
trinkets into a comfort of color, a testament
in a dark time to what has been saved and
what, for another year, remains unbroken.

 

Buffet

She thinks she would do better on her diet
if there just weren’t so many fucking holidays.
Not just the major ones on that long decadent slide
after Halloween -- Thanksgiving, December parties,
New Year’s, Super Bowl, Valentine’s Day – but
all the others. The birthdays, anniversaries,
vacations, celebrations, “Fridays,” they pummel
her over and over. But she also knows the problem
isn’t really the holidays, but the people involved.
Her family and friends show love through food.
Alcohol and sugar. In quantity. When they say,
“Do you want a piece of cake?” they are saying,
“I love you. Do you love me?” When her mother
has made a special trip to buy a special bottle,
refusing a drink would be like a slap in the face.
It’s no wonder she is heavy, and she will stay so
until people stop caring for her, move away, or die.
At the doctor’s office, as she gets on the scale,
she tells the nurse with the clipboard, “This is not
my fault. I am loved. Not wisely, but too well.”