The Christmas Wish

My two children are young adults now,

out on their own,

earning pay checks, making babies,

experiencing the joys and harsh realities 

of the real world,

we are far removed 

from their childhood celebrations of Christmas morning,

the late night assembling of complicated toy machinery,

concocted explanations of mysterious traveling via rooftops 

and what happens when apartments have no chimneys,

though now I must deal with others in the family

who whip themselves into a frenzy 

of self-induced panic each year

over what the perfect present would be 

for someone they spoke with 

exactly three times all year,

the same people 

who never believe great-grandpa 

when he says he just wants a card 

and a nice family gathering,

though I'm fairly certain he really means it.

When I give family members 

a personal note or poem

and place it in a Christmas card 

adorned with snowy scenes,

I doubt that most of them notice 

I've just showed them 

that giving from the heart 

can be simple and easy,

they just think I am putting in 

the least amount of effort I can

into a children’s holiday 

that no longer holds any interest for me,

and because of that,

nobody bothers to ask me

what I want for Christmas anymore,

but if they did, I’d tell them that

every year at Christmas time

I find myself dreaming 

of living in a trailer on a beach in Mexico,

just me and Jack the Dog
watching surfers and sunsets

with my guitar and just enough whiskey

to take the chill off the night air,

far removed from the worry 

of who's giving what to whom,

appreciating my extended family

from a safe distance,

missing my two grown children and their babies,

and looking forward to seeing them all

after The Super Bowl

when The Season of Mass Hysteria

has passed.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   December 2013