That’s what I’m asking for this year.
That’s how I’m responding to my spouse, siblings, kids
and grandkids too who, once again, insist upon a list of every single thing
I want for Christmas. Don’t you see, it gets to be that,
after almost eighty of these weary feasts of dutiful generosity,
there’s nothing left to ask for? Haven’t they noticed,
no one wears neckties any more, and even in these northern climes –
and losing/leaving things behind, as I do more and more –
I already own sufficient pairs of gloves, slippers too, to equip a small platoon,
if not a regiment? In other words, my needs seem to have shrunk,
along with my stature, and the wants I feel belong to the non-material variety.
And so I ask nothing – no thing for Christmas:
Perhaps an hour, instead, of solitude beside the manger, a nestled child
upon my lap, an opened book, the radiant warmth of burning logs,
one day, at least, of surcease from these varied, mobile aches
and pains that linger on to test my well-worn frame,
the old familiar touch of tenderness that says, “I’m glad you’re here,
still here, after season upon season of all life’s trial and turmoil.”
Such are the gifts I seek, not wrapped and laid below the tree, but hidden
just beneath the passing of these late and almost holy days.
Nothing For Christmas
