An Illusion Of Christmas
by Natasha Anne Rose Bowman
Monday, December 17, 2007
Rated "G" by the Author.
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We were in awe of you,
Admired your obviously perfect lifestyle
From the fingerprint-smudged,
Of our family car.
We would race outside at every opportunity we had handed to us,
Bickering good-naturedly over who would be the privileged one,
The special one,
The one to sit in the front seat
For the five-minute drive
As we’d slowly pass your
Festively decorated home,
We’d gasp in appreciation,
We were you,
If only for one Christmas.
The heaps and heaps of presents your folks could afford!
How, we would wonder, could you not be grateful,
Sitting side-by-side in our elementary school classroom,
You’d scowl at my Christmas doodles on the corner of the desk
And loudly proclaim
Your hate for the season.
I’d shake my head,
And continue drawing.
I hated YOU.
You were spoiled,
I was sure of it.
Santa was going to write you off this year,
Without a doubt.
Now, however, I see.
I understand what was going on behind those angry, childish eyes.
Did you hate me, too?
Did you stare out the window of your father’s car as you slowly passed,
You were me?
Because your lovely, inspirational Christmas decorations
Ended at your doorstep.
Your parents carefully chose,
The nicest ornaments
To hang on the side of your tree
That was visible
Only through your living room window.
I now know that
The other half
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|Reviewed by Rose Rideout
|Darling Natasha such a sad write yet excellent lines, thank you dear for sharing. Merry Christmas to you and I wish you the best of health and happiness in the New Year.
Love you darling, XOXOXOXO Rose
|Reviewed by jude forese
|Reviewed by Karen Palumbo
|Interesting perspective and yet you found out all things are relative, beautiful writing.....
|Reviewed by Karen Vanderlaan
|a sad but truly powerful write in the stark reality revealed|
|Reviewed by larry linville
|You nailed it. What a great write.
|Reviewed by Andy Turner (Reader)
|.....again it's the old perfect book-cover, and not its contents.
Plastic parents beget plastic children.
Hallmark of a Jerry Spinelli book...