For years
We were in awe of you,
Admired your obviously perfect lifestyle
From the fingerprint-smudged,
Crayon-marked
Windows
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
Into town.
As we’d slowly pass your
Sparkling,
Lit-up,
Festively decorated home,
We’d gasp in appreciation,
Each wishing
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,
Excited?
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,
Nasty.
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,
Longing,
Wishing,
You were me?

Because your lovely, inspirational Christmas decorations
Ended at your doorstep.
Your parents carefully chose,
Every year,
Without fail,
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
Was
Nearly,
Almost
Always
Drooping and
Bare.