Slowed Down

I’ve run out of steam
I did my rant
Put out my words
There’s more I know
But tonight
I’ve run out of steam
What is more?
More is building up steam
Or is it
Letting hope simmer 
Long enough for 
Words to flow 
To make sense 
Out of the senseless
Logic
Out of what seems illogical
Order
Out of chaos.

“One thing at a time, all things in succession. That which grows fast 

withers as rapidly; and that which grows slow endures.

~ Josiah Gilbert Holland

Crisis of Care

In 1966, I stood in a linen closet crying because I was just too scared to do a bed bath…..on a man….kind of old - probably about 40. That was the crisis I had to deal with. 

Telling my dad that I was quitting nursing was the alternative. Just over twenty years later, there was another critical point in my nursing career. Yes, I continued in nursing. That crisis was on a medical unit in Regina. I wanted to know how, with nursing process, to care for patients in alcohol withdrawal. So I moved to Texas. There was no nursing education specific to alcoholism, however I did get experience in a treatment center. Nurses were in treatment centers, not hospitals. And yet, alcoholics and those with drug addiction frequently require medical care for the medical effects of alcoholism and/or drug addiction.

Today, there is another crisis in the world of nursing. In the world of health care workers at any level.  On the streets, in the ambulances, in emergency rooms. Fentanyl, prescription opiate and illicit opiate abuse. I’m not sensationalizing when I say the people are dying out there. Withdrawal management, better known as detox, is alive and well whether in hospitals or detox facilities. I have told many patients over these last many years that I will take care of them as many times as is needed. I have told them that relapse is not a shame but part of the process of addiction. This brings me to the next crisis in the world of active addiction. It has become so much bigger than that first bed bath. And it really is not my crisis.

We, within health care, have the knowledge, tools and abilities to treat the medical effects of this dreadful condition that spirals into so many other medical conditions. We are saving lives…..over and over again. For those that still have loving families, employment and community support systems there is some hope. Hope that a new life, a good life, is a possibility. And then there are those whose bridges have all been burned or are at least severely damaged. Those that are homeless, jobless, with no family. And yet we save lives.

I am reminded of Ebenezer Scrooge when he relegates them to ‘work houses and prisons’ and ‘if they would rather die then let them’. Is that where we are now? And yet we still ‘save lives’. And where do these lives go? The ones that are homeless, jobless, and with no family. Has society even thought about the personal addiction treatment that is needed alongside valuable medical management? In five decades, my limited view of how we have progressed past the stigma, to identify the chronicity of this condition, is that we are still blinded by the brilliance of controlling substances. We seem to have completely forgotten the individuals, the families that have been devastated by the conditions of alcoholism and addiction. 

To begin to mend this crisis, treatment centers, outpatient clinics and more importantly affordable homes are required. Housing and funding. For those that have housing, their ability to maintain clean and sober time increases, the quality of recovery is improved. Is this an easy task? No. It will require a complete restructuring of our attitudes and our ways of thinking in our increasingly complex system of health care.

“Sometimes you need a little crisis to get your adrenaline 

flowing and help you realize your potential.”

~ Jeannette Walls, The Glass Castle

Safety Challenge - A Story

Safety Challenge - A Story

Joy stood alone on the country road. Clouds building in the west obscured the sun. Lightning flickered and danced. She wanted to run to the town she just passed. She knew the old granary, away from trees and her car, would be safer. Her old beater was not the safest place to be. No other cars would brave this storm. Slinging her back pack over her shoulder, hugging a blanket under her jacket, Joy did run. Her only hope was that she wouldn’t be sharing the granary with any critters.

“In a crisis, time was always the enemy.”

~ Stephen L. Carter, Back Channel

Not In Vain

Not In Vain

Once upon a time there was a young boy who wanted to be just like his grandpa. Sometimes he  wanted to be very exactly the same. Then he would just shrug his little shoulders, put his hands in his pockets, just like his grandpa, and say ‘Hmmm’. Now this young boy was only five years old. His grandpa called him ‘young man’. He really liked that. It made him feel grown up. 

His grandpa was kind. His grandpa was smart. His grandpa had a great big laugh that made eveyone feel warm and tingly. His grandpa took care of his animals like they were family. They couldn’t live in the house because grandma wouldn’t let them. And it was a whole herd of sheep that roamed the hills behind grandma and grandpa’s house. One day, when he was in the pasture waiting for his grandpa, he tried to name them all, but after only three names he couldn’t tell them apart! But grandpa seemed to know them all. He could tell by their shapes and sizes. Even tiny differences in their wooly coats or shapes of their ears. So he stopped thinking about it. 

Grandpa was smart too. He read lots of books and sometimes read them to his 'Young Man'. One of them was written by a man with a funny name called Shakespeare. He didn’t understand all of the stories. This made his head hurt so he stopped thinkng about it. 

There was only one time when he didn’t want to be like his grandpa. He loved hearing his grandpa’s laugh. Sometimes his laugh would change. It sounded the same but it didn’t feel warm. It was very cold and it was not tingly. It scraped like it was scraping against his heart. And there was a funny smell whenever the ‘bad day’s’ laugh would be there. One of his grandpa’s friends that he didn’t like might be visiting. And grandma was usually crying and sometimes yelling. And grandma didn’t do that. She was kind too. And smart. She and grandpa would talk about that Shakespeare guy. If the young boy came over when one of these bad days were happening, he felt really bad. He would check to make sure the animals had been fed. Sometimes he got grandma a cookie and a glass of water and try not to let grandpa see him. If he did, he'd holler out ‘There’s my Young Man! C’mere, Young Man. Say hello to my friend here. Tell him all about trying to name all the sheep in the whole g.d. flock!" The young boy felt stupid and ashamed. 

He knew the next time he saw his grandpa all the bottles would be gone. Grandma and grandpa would be quiet and not talking to each other and the house would feel cloudy. His grandpa would apologize and tell him he’ll never treat him that way again. The 'bad day’s' grandpa was the only time that the young man didn’t want to be like his grandpa. One day, after one of the bad days, the young boy told his grandpa that he wouldn’t be coming back to visit them. Ever again. Because he didn’t like the bad days. He didn’t like to see his kind, smart, laughing grandpa turn into a bad man. That made his grandpa and his grandma cry. But he didn’t know what else to do. He had tried to figure it out. But it made his head hurt so he had to stop thinking about it. So he said good by to his grandma and his grandpa and walked away with tears rolling down his cheeks.

The young boy grew up and became a young man with dreams and hopes. Although his beloved grandpa died after too many ‘bad days’, the young man decided he wanted to know why. Why did his grandpa change so dramatically when he drank alcohol. Not everyone in his family changed or drank too much. In high school he had been taught how to look for answers. He found he had an affinity for research and was full of questions that begged for answers. He had an insatiable desire to chase down those answers. Despite dead ends and trails that led off in unexpected directions, the young man kept up his search. Many people told him it was useless, that there was no point chasing down something that was just a bunch of bad choices. But the Young Man knew that his grandpa only chose to pick up one drink. He knew his grandpa did not to turn into an unpleasant man - a monster in a child’s eyes. 

There were many times his head hurt from thinking about it all, but hope for new answers pushed him forward. His grandpa would not die in vain and unloved. The Young Man began his search from the intuition of a child and the sadness of watching his kind, smart and laughing grandfather.

“What we find changes who we become.”

~ Peter Morville

Homeward

Homeward

We were on our way home from the family Christmas. Blankets and wisps of cloud settled and curled, hiding granite grandeur, catching on sharp edges of pine trees and bare aspens. Inching our way slowly was our only hope for a safe trip home. The children slept soundly clutching their new toys. Georgie cuddled his new truck - not exactly the most cuddly of toys. Mandy snuggled with her new soft dolly, already named Molly. My husband Rodney was at the wheel. Radio off, we chatted in whispers. We didn’t want to wake the children or cause eddies in the fog. Finally arriving at our turn off, we left the cold drifting fog behind as we descended into the dark valley. The glow of our boisterous family Christmas brought us light and warmth.

“If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance.”

~ George Bernard Shaw, Immaturity

A Special Quiet

This Christmas was quiet
mostly calm and settled ~
despite folks away
estranged from families
always hoping to 
get better
be better
recover from active addictions
find a life
that was or
that could be
pulling away from addiction’s grasp
struggling to believe where
belief had been lost
smiles and tears
for all that has been.

“It is not true that everyone is special. It is true that everyone was 

once special and still possesses the ability to recover it.”

~ Criss Jami, Killosophy

A Soft, yet Merry, Christmas Eve!

It’s well after nine ~
I settle into my bed

Hope for the morrow
runs through my head

For time that ticks on
Christmas Eve has now come

Hope for a kind sleep
To soft night I succumb.

“Yea, all things live forever, though at times they sleep and are forgotten.”

~ H.Rider Haggard, She

Without Thought

My feet carry me
step by step
no complaint
except maybe at the end of a day
after running or walking
while the rest of me multi-tasks

My feet carry me
without being asked or knowing
how to take steps
whether to take steps
why my feet work the way they do.
without hope that they will work.

My feet carry me
but not to a mirror
to make certain of a correct image ~
mirror’s are reserved for faces and hairdo’s
while my feet are wrapped in socks and shoes
or if they’re lucky, in sandals and sunshine.

My feet carry me
through my life
up mountains, across prairies
on beaches or in the desert.
at work or at play
no questions asked.

“The foot feels the foot when it feels the ground.”

~ Buddha

A Christmas to Remember

A Christmas to Remember 

The first sentence was the writing prompt for the short story that follows ~ 

“As he flicked through the letters, a small handwritten envelope caught his attention and his heart began to thump. A usual pile of bills and junk mail, few people took the time to write letters anymore. The handwriting was familiar. A long ago familiarity. The envelope, yellowed with age, was postmarked December 18, 1976. A sterling silver letter opener slid easily under the sealed flap. Inside, a simple card showed a deep winter scene, an old log cabin against a backdrop of pines. The words were as simple. ‘I’ll be home for Christmas’.  Joshua smiled. Pushing away from his desk, he stood up and called to his wife. “Martha, remember the Christmas of 1976?”

“Yes dear. What about it? That was quite a while ago, Josh.”

Joshua put the Christmas card down on the counter where his wife was creating their dinner.

“Oh my! Where did you get that?! That looks like my writing.” Martha wiped her hands on her apron and picked up the card.

“It is your writing, sweetie. It was 1976. We had been married just under a year. You had to be away for a two month stint on some journalism assigment. We both hoped so much that we’d be together for our first Christmas.When I didn’t hear from you - no cell phones then, and we couldn’t afford long distance - I was worried sick. I was certain you had left me. So there were no Christmas decorations up. I was just sitting sad and feeling sorry for myself. “

“Oh Joshua. Now I do remember everything. You were so surprised when I came bursting in the door with presents. And you looked dreadful!”

“And here we are forty years later. Still in love and you are as beautiful as ever.”

Martha's Christmas card fluttered to the floor. Outside, snow fell softly. 

“When we recall Christmas past, we usually find that the simplest things 

- not the great occasions - give off the greatest glow of happiness.”

~ Bob Hope

Port in the Storm

Shadows were deep in alleyways. Fingers of shredded moonlight clawed between derelict buildings. Driving rain washed ancient cobblestones, streets and walkways. Huddled in a doorway a young man and his dog tried in vain to avoid the wild damp. Burning trash barrels sputtered and drowned. As the wind died down, the only sound was a midnight choir. Hark the Herald Angels rose above the rain, deep tenors and bass in harmony. A lone light burned inside one of the buildings. A barely legible sign read Hope’s Harbour.

“It is Christmas in the heart that puts Christmas in the air.”

~ W.T.Ellis

February 02, 2024

Author's note: this writing exercise was 'setting a scene'. I chose a photo to write from. 

It's Personal ~ 1

It's Personal

Papers were stacked everywhere. Christmas was coming in three days. The only decoration was a slender glass vase with candy canes in it. It was on the window sill behind the curtains. 

Sam was depressed. She had too much to do and her manuscript should have been in to the publisher the week before. It was horrible. Terrible. The only things on TV were the sloppy Christmas chick flicks. 

This had to stop! Sam was determined to get through Christmas without her own sloppiness. Stopping Christmas was a job too big. She could just close her curtains and stay home until January, but that sounded too boring. She would finish her manuscript! Sigh. ‘I will not cry! Or be angry! But I feel sad and angry. And I’m talking to myself!’ 

Rummaging in her closets and under her bed for the rest of the decorations, she muttered. ‘I might as well get them out and start decorating.’ Sitting on the floor she opened the first box. ‘Wow. There’s the crystal icicle that my children gave me in 1992. And that little brass bell…….and what’s this? I had forgotten about all these beautiful Christmas cards.’ Sam lost herself in all of the memories. An hour later, there were still no decorations hung. The Christmas tree was out of it’s box, but lay on it’s side waiting to be plugged in. Sam had hoped that this year she’d be able to get a real tree, but her actions were weaker than her hope. The other decorations were scattered around her on the floor. She had found her Christmas mug. Hugging her favourite snowman cup of chai tea to her, she leaned up against the wall and smiled. 

Sam never really believed in the religious part of Christmas. She kept quiet about that part of her life. But she loved the history to this season. And her own history was part of the Christmas she enjoyed. She smiled and stood up. Stiffly -  because when you’ve been sitting on the floor for an hour reading through memories, stiff is part of the deal.

When she went to bed that night, her fake tree glowed with blue electric lights. All the little ornaments decorated the tree. Old Christmas cards were strung across the living room window. Her favourite Saint Nicholas was set up on the mantel. Sam slept well that night.

“All true meaning resides in the personal relationship 

to a phenomenon, what it means to you.”

~ Christopher McCandless

Choosing Magic

This will be short
No Christmas bells
Keep the Christmas trees just trees
Songs - only on the radio - which I can turn off.
Any hope for joy in this world is just a dream.

Some people don’t like Christmas
And there are many good reasons.
Some do seem just Grinchy - or is that Scrooge - or both?
Each bright sparkly bit of Christmas - music, giving and receiving, laughter
are the things I like about what can be a beautiful magical time.

“Sometimes it’s easy to get caught up in life and take things for granted.”

~ Karli Perrin, The Gift

Last Tree on the Lot

Last Tree on the Lot

It was the last tree on the lot. Jerry was closing up. Traffic had slowed to almost nothing. Just one car had gone by in the last half hour. Jerry’s pick-up was the only one parked on the street. Street lights blinked stop and go. A dog barked once in the distance. A clear night, Jerry could see stars sparkling and twinkling in the blackened, moon-lit cold.

Jerry turned out the string of lights circling the lot, then the neon sign at the front. He was about to get in his pick-up and drive home to his quiet apartment. Something stopped him. He had to straighten up that last tree. He couldn’t leave it just lying there, in the icy puddle of snow and water. Dirty water that would freeze over in the night, crusting it with snow. ‘Ah, its just a tree. Leave it and get out of the cold.’ Talking out loud, even quietly, in the cold night, the words hung in the air. Jerry looked around to see if anyone was there. Only a well furred tabby was padding across the quiet street. It didn’t even look up.

‘I’ll just straighten it up.’ Jerry picked up the small, misshapen tree, trimmed the trunk at the base and put it in the vacated tree stand that looked just as lonely.

‘Can’t leave ‘em just like that.’ From the back of his truck, Jerry pulled out an old trunk. After digging around in it he pulled out a string of lights, a garland, a few Christmas balls and an old star. ‘I spent this much time getting the old tree off that dirty snowbank, decoratin’ it won’t take much longer. Home’ll still be there waitin’ for me.’ Jerry had pulled his gloves off so he could set to work and make it quick. He rubbed his hands together, blew on them to warm them a bit. When he was done decorating, he stood back to look at his handy work. ‘Guess that’s good enough’. He plugged the lights into the socket for his neon sign. Stepped back again. ‘Yep.’ 

He put the trunk in the pick-up, tipped his cap to the last tree on the lot. In the back of his mind, all along, he had a hope. ‘Joe and Mary should be by here on their rounds pretty quick, and then Liam and after that those other three guys - can’t remember their names. Hope I’ve given them a little bit of Christmas on these cold ol’ streets. That’s the best I can do for ‘em’. He patted the pile of blankets under the tree.

Jerry climbed in his pick-up. ‘Come on, Bessy, I know you’re cold. There ya’go.’ Jerry let his old friend warm up a bit, turned on his headlights and set out for home.

“Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn’t before! 

What if Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store. 

What if Christmas...perhaps...means a little bit more!”

~ Dr. Seuss, How the Grinch Stole Christmas

Author's note: Edited February 02, 2024

Planning with Hope

Plans sketched with lines and form ~

steps, tasks and guidelines

Goals set far down the road for

visions, ideas, and dreams

Journeys and roads long or short

side roads sprout along the way

Hope, not considered in plans,

keeps direction straight and true.

Even a tiny bit of hope transcends

roadblocks that shift our plans.

Invisible hope trickles through all our plans

from our hearts, our belief and our souls.

“After all, hope is a form of planning.”

~ Gloria Steinem, My Life on the Road

Christmas Wrapping ~ 2

Short links of hope in 
chains of 'wait another day'
after one more phone call
gathering up loose ends
so Christmas has a roof,
a lock on the door.

There is always hope 
for another new beginning.

“Nobody’s life is wrapped up neatly in a bow.”

~ Zoe Lister-Jones

Life's Work

Like a fine string

threaded through beads 

many shapes, sizes and colours,

hope holds life together.

“Invisible threads are the strongest ties.”

~ Friedrich Nietzsche

One Nurse's Belief

Of the ugly things in this world I see
beauty nestled deep in the soul.

But wait. I don’t see ugly things
but ugly actions from the soulless.

But wait again. Who has no soul?
A soul is unseen, unheard, nor smelled.

How does anyone know that someone whose actions are horribly wrong

is missing that thing called a soul.

My brain struggles with this difficult task

to decide who is deserving until
with hope I look in their eyes ~

Yes, I do know that eyes can be masked.

My job as a nurse is to open my hands

to offer care, connection and share my belief ~
all are deserving no matter their past.

Is this an excuse to be hurt or abused?
Definitely not. Respect must be drawn to the fore.

The art of a nurse is deeper than just an offer or share
~ to let someone go is the hardest of all that is hard.

While a soul’s beauty is shadowed by pain,
it shines weakly, and always is there.

“I don’t deserve a soul, yet I still have one. I know because it hurts.”

~ Douglas Coupland, The Gum Thief

Book Review: The High Mountains of Portugal by Yann Martel

This fantastic story, with the beautiful writing of Yann Martel, is written in three parts. Homeless, is Tomás’ journey from the city of Lisbon, his home, by car to the High Mountains of Portugal. Understand, the car is his uncle’s pride and joy and one of the ‘new fangled machines’ that was replacing horses. And Tomás has never driven anything. And he walks backwards, turning his back on the God of his upbringing, because of the unexpected death of his son. Full of the energy of exploration and immense grief, Part One felt rather choppy for me, with a lot of graphic detail. Tomás journey is, ostensibly, in search of a religious artifact described in the journal of one Father Ulisses from 1631. However his journey is also of a much deeper personal nature that Tomás does not recognize.

Unexpected was the move to another story in Homeward. The stories of Eusebio Lozora, a pathologist and his wife Maria is also full of detail and discussion of religion. Maria, a devout Catholic, has found a parallel between the Agatha Christie mysteries and parables of Jesus. She visits Eusebio in his pathology lab to tell him of her revelations. Again the theme of immense grief is prevalent as they also had lost a child. There is an autopsy, with rather gruesome detail, but much magical realism. Maria comes to Eusebio, in two separate forms, first appearing alive and well, and then following, seeming much more etheral and dark.

Section Three, Home, again moves ahead in time to the life of Peter Tovy, a Canadian Senator who has also experienced great loss of his dearly beloved wife. He lets go of the secure, ordered life in Canada to travel to the High Mountains of Portugal. His companion is a chimpanzee named Odo. With a Canadian delegation of Senators, he had taken a four day trip to Oklahoma where he tours an Institute for Primate Research. There he meets Odo and a relationship of mutual respect is born. After relocating to and living in the tiny village of Tuizelo, learning Portuguese and learning how to live a very basic life, he also learns that he has returned to the home of his parents in the High Mountains of Portugal. 

And so this creation from Yann Martel’s imagination journeyed through much loneliness and grief amid the busyness of life. Each story is connected through the distance of family. Hope and faith are also challenged in the stories, but each person carries some semblance of faith and hope. Some faith is stronger for some than others. The mood of this book went from agitation and high energy to great calm and acceptance of what is important in this life. Not religion, not things and not marching with progress but looking ‘for moments that make sense.’

“Stories full of metaphors are by writers who play the 

language like a mandolin for our entertainment, novelist,”

~ Yann Martel, The High Mountains of Portugal

Sunshine, Sand and Snowflakes

Sunshine, Sand and Snowflakes 

It was an old guitar propped up against a rock. Sun had dried the wood, thin strips of blue paint peeling away. Only one string remained strung. The others broken and curled. Sand had drifted up against the base of the once beautiful instrument. Petra could picture a cowboy sitting on the rock and strumming quietly as he watched over his herd. 

Petra had been out riding at the far end of her father’s ranch. At this far end, the cliffs allowed her to look over the desert. There was little plant growth but tough grasses and mesquite. Cattle seldom came this far to graze but if one of the herd was lost this was an area that was searched. To a newcomer to this land, it would look as though the guitar had been here for a long time, but the dry winds and hot sun of the desert quickly dried and weathered all that they touched. It was difficult to tell how long it had really been there. Or why.

Petra dismounted, letting the reins of her pinto, John, trail in the sand. Cautious of rattlesnakes, Petra decided to not go far from her horse. Taking her sketch book and pencils from his saddle bags, and her bottle of water, she settled against the only tree throwing shade. While John grazed on the sparse grasses, Petra sketched a picture of the guitar, the rock and the shimmering expanse of red desert in the distance. On that day, the wind had been calm, desert sand lying still in the heat.

~~~~~

Thirty-five years later, Petra looked wistfully at the finished painting of the old guitar that hung over the mantle. So strange. She had come so far in her life. In this northern city far from the desert, where everything was convenient and beautiful, her life was still a good life. Interesting, busy but so very different. Cars instead of horses. Snowflakes in the sunshine. Each stage of her life had been full of hope. It was always the hope that moved her forward. Hope and the strength she gained from each experience. This Christmas, as the others, she was grateful for all those people she had met along the way. 

The doorbell rang, reining in her wandering thoughts. Her family had arrived for turkey dinner with all the trimmings. Laughing their hello’s they stamped the snow from their boots. They would make their own paintings of their lives to cherish. They would be cautious and they would be brave. Petra smiled and opened her arms to her grandchildren and welcomed them into her home.

“I may not have gone where I intended to go, 

but I think I have ended up where I needed to be.”

~ Douglas Adams, The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul

One Particular Toy

One particular toy one Christmas
Of all hoped for toys and gifts
From Santa Claus or even from under a Christmas tree.
From my cousins Sandra and Mary on a family holiday
To Grandmother’s when I was but five
It was a little red iron and ironing board
That today is not allowed in the stores.
A little red iron plugged into the wall
It really did get warm!
The ironing board just fit a five year old
I could iron clothes just like my mom!
Now both iron and ironing board have gone the way of all toys.
Yet, my memory keeps them safe from harm
And yes - I still love ironing. 
With a big girl’s steam iron and an ironing board that fits.

“Christmas is the keeping-place for memories of our innocence.”

~ Joan Mills, Author

My Life Story in Five Sentences

Yesterday afternoon's writing assignment was to be Five Paragraphs not Sentences, ten minutes timed writing and was really difficult. I did write for ten minutes but….the creativity was extremely lacking, so I have pared it down to sentences. I’ve chosen what seemed to be the core of each paragraph. 

My Life Story in Five Sentences

Learning to be human.

Learning how to learn.

Learning to survive through goodness, fun and turmoil.

Learning to be grateful while away from home.

Coming home to my sons full of hope.

“Do you wait for things to happen, or do you make them 

happen yourself? I believe in writing your own story.”

~ Charlotte Eriksson

An Ode to Christmas Past

Christmas day dawned bright and clear 

and so did children’s eyes. For days and weeks they’d prepped for this ~ A Santa Claus surprise! Decorate, bake, and gaily wrap gifts for beneath the Christmas tree ~ a tree all dressed in twinkling lights, silvery tinsel and an angel placed atop.

Creeping down the stairs 
in an early Christmas morn, 
to the glow of Christmas lights 
and silent night time snow 
To know Santa always visited, 
cookie crumbs remain, glass of milk was dry. Stockings filled, gifts laid out brought many delighted cries.

Then sadness struck a heavy blow ~ epilepsy shattered the scene. 
A brother dear, without warning 
fell violently from his seat.
Family pieces, like a Christmas puzzle, were strewn about the house, but like a puzzle never all picked up.

The next year came, then the next 
Christmas picture all askew. 
But not unseen was that terrible day 
when Christmas glow turned blue.

We grew, some flew taking Christmas traditions 

along to share with children of young families until…...

while baking and decorating at Christmas time
a knock came on the door. 
A greater tragedy struck!
Hope vanished with the news
the day when mother died. 
Shock felt that day I can’t unfeel. 
Raw edges ignored, were slowly scrubbed
then gently, softly sanded through time

This long time ago, each Christmas time,
Now mended, patched and stitched
with decoration and baking, gifts and cards
to honour those that are lost. 
These are the cracks in the picture 
mended with threads of silver and gold 
from the memories of early days ~
of creeping down morning stairs 
in light of early dawn. 
Silence of gently fallen snow, 
warmth of books and a Christmas puzzle
brings close a fading gentle time ~

Cracks from the great abyss of tragedies long ago 
tore families young, now growing old, have 
filled with golden warmth of hope 
in sore and tender hearts.

Christmas comes but once a year
or so the story’s told.
My story is with me all the year
along with Christmas gold.

“Faith is the seamstress

Who mends our torn belief

Who sews the hem of childhood trust

And clips the threads of grief.”

~ Joan Walsh Anglund

Author's note: Edited January 29, 2024