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Rated: E · Poetry · Family · #2264012
Special is not always pleasant
Sometimes sadness springs where it shouldn't
when memories are taken out and examined
like the Christmas tree baubles that lived in a box in the attic
and had a special smell all of their own
The excitement of waking to find my feet restricted
both by a sock filled with gifts, and a pile of presents
"He's been."
those simple words still spark a thrill of recognition
though now my own are grown
and never will I hear that phrase again

one year brought a heavy rectangular present
I couldn't think what it was
usually there was some inkling
after all, I'd been careful to write to Father Christmas
so he knew what I'd like
I set the mystery aside to savour
as I opened my sweet hoard
some of which indeed were sweets
eating too much before dinner was a common mistake in those days
eventually the moment came
frugal as ever my mother had reused wrapping paper
by the time I was old enough to notice it didn't matter
the carefully preserved sheets were a part of our Christmas

I unwrapped that heavy block
which still weighs on my mind
for it was a disappointment
a volume of 'The Lord of the Rings'
that I didn't want
ungrateful brat
I hated its weight
such a book was impossible to read comfortably
why couldn't it have been three paperbacks?
I hid my disappointment
but not my guilt
and now, once more, I've dusted it off
and shared it
sadly.


Line Count: 37

Written for The Writer's Cramp - 26th December 2021

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