HE CAUGHT himself tiptoeing the line
between reality and fiction,
lost in daydreams of sumptuous dishes
and new clothes.
The December breeze blew
and tugged at both the roof and his thoughts as
he was greeted by the cold—
nothing spelled seasons better than
gifts cradled in boxes,
draped with patches of red and green,
aroma of cured meats wafting through the air,
a sea of lights flooding the town by nightfall.
He snapped out of wishful thinking
and embraced raw truth, reality bared
as it truly were—
cheap bulbs,
Mother’s bland spaghetti,
and Father’s hand-me-downs,
everyone cramped in a little hut
far-flung from the heart of the celebration —
images he was willing to forgo
even for a little while
for the love of Yuletide magic.
