In this town, too, the heaps of trees
are appearing in the squares,
getting ready for their final glow-up
in the great fir grove in the sky.
Each house has its ritual
and ours is no different:
first we remove the frosted balls
the cats weren’t able to reach,
then the strands of twinkling lights
before we unstring the popcorn.
(I wish there was popcorn;
I wish there were cats.)
Then, when the tree is bare
and the house is dark,
we fetch down the long,
narrow boxes we save
for our little angels, lined
with shrouds of yielding tissue.
It’s best to do it when they’re still
asleep: into the boxes, lids on tight,
then gently, gently lift them up
the creaking stairs to the attic.
The house is ours again, at last.
Eleven months of peace await.
Time enough for us to gather strength
before we face another year
of holidays spent with our little angels.