The box under the tree
wasn't wrapped in shiny paper;
didn’t have a bright red bow.
It was rather battered,
wrapped in torn brown paper
tied up with dirty string,
but the tag held his name:
he gingerly unwrapped it
and opened the lid.
With a mental “whoosh”
the contents assailed his senses.
* * *
The boy played with his wind-up train set
under a tree decorated
with sparse baubles
brought from a home
that now seemed far away.
His baby sister gurgled on the blanket
beside him,
while his mother sang in a kitchen
warmed with the smell of cocoa.
The young man,
lonely as he worked the midnight shift
on this bright Christmas morning,
thought of Christmases past,
and smiled.
The sailor, hitching home
over snowdrifted roads,
awaited the next car
to take him a few more miles
closer to home,
closer to family warmth,
and mincemeat pies.
The memories of family,
all much loved, some long dead;
of friends far away
in time and place:
mental milestones of happiness,
and of heartbreak:
the friendly ghosts
of seasons past.
* * *
The battered box
vanished from his mind
as he watched the activity
beneath the sparkling tree.
The children,
surrounded by presents,
added noisy counterpoint
to the carols on the stereo.
His wife, long accustomed
to his Celtic melancholia,
smiled as he wiped
a single joyous tear.
His Gift was memories,
a sense of family,
of continuity,
and love.
