I remember Christmas
With an intensity that tugs at my heart,
Fills it with joy and longing
And brings fond tears.
I remember my Dad,
Wrestling the reluctant tree into the pot,
Filling the room with forest smells
And our minds with anticipation.
I remember the lights,
Wayward and willful at first,
Filling the tree with magic at last,
And our hearts with joy.
I remember pillow cases
Waiting at the foot of the bed, in the dark,
Full of presents long-imagined
And fervently hoped for.
I remember a cold house
Warmed into riotous life by Dad’s determination,
Filling the grate with dancing flame
And our lives with contentment.
I remember the Christmas baubles.
Winking in glittering glass,
Full of flickering firelight
And twinkling mystery.
I remember my Mum
Weaving through the steaming tapestry of her kitchen,
Filling our plates with a splendid dinner.
And our bellies to busting.
And I remember the Christmas story,
Wonderful and unquestioned.
Filling our young lives with certainty
And our young hearts with hope.
I remember the brilliance of that beacon
Which, even now, a cynical world cannot quite extinguish.
Warming my hesitant soul with the glowing embers of faith.
And I am comforted.