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.

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