Tuesday, December 13

December. Freezing fog. Temperatures in the lowest 20’s. And no precipitation. On grey days it seems best to crawl back into bed and stay there. When the sun breaks through, then one can tackle the mounting list of things to do for Christmas. I love Christmas, though with less ardor than I used to. Largely responsible is the use of carols to sell things. I viewed carols as something evocative. I could listen by treelight and be back there when winter was truly dark and the coming of light, both figuratively and literally, was heralded. I was a child who first saw our Christmas tree on Christmas morning, who traveled by father-pulled sled over icy snowy roads. Who saw the postman come by with cards and packages several times a day. The gifts I gave were made in school. It was so not about money and buying.

It’s harder now to take myself to another place, another time–I’m so absolutely fixed in this unimaginative one filled with expectations and complications and false values.  Mark me down as another old person recalling simpler days when everyone could be a child.

 

 

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About Carol Foreman Brockfield

Poet in Medford, Oregon
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