Christmas Past
One year, my brothers,
gleefully hiding behide furniture
in quasi-military communication,
spoke in hushed tones
into their new walkie talkies.
They called each other anonyomously
from upstairs rooms,
the cellar, bathrooms,
anywhere
in convert conversations,
Another year,
our brother John,
smuggling alcohol
to the upstairs bedrooms
poured, unseen
to our younger brothers.
The Christmas tree,
annually slathered
in silver tinsel
obcuring the green pine
beneath.
The tinsel represented ice,
meant to be fluttering
down the tree crown.
Instead, we would ball it up
throwing it indiscriminately
to watch it land.
Dad and Uncle Johnny
baiting each other
in poltical banter,
with Dad left banging the table
in frustration,
Uncle Johnny in jublilation,
grinning.
At midnight mass
Dad fell asleep
snoring soundly
as the priest
prayed to remain devout.
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My dad and my uncle in mortal combat at the card table. My younger twin brothers showing off walking on their hands or doing dual gymnastics for our entertainment in the middle of the living room floor. And there was that Christmas morning when they looked out the window and saw the new snowmobile sitting in the new snow, eager to put on their boots and coats, forgetting about breakfast to get outside and try it.
Ron