by Baloney Bill
My memory of the day before Christmas when I was nine years old.
Christmas Eve, 1965
We skaters walk home with
our skates slung over our
shoulders, our faces flushed
with the chill of winter air.
The service station owner
pushes in the rack of tires and
pulls down the garage door,
closing up for the day.
The grocer in his white apron
puts up the "CLOSED" sign and
hurriedly cranks back the striped
awning over the front window as
lazy flakes of snow begin to fall.
A line of cars comes up the hill
from downtown, pair after pair of
headlights drifting toward home in
the early evening darkness this
long-awaited Christmas Eve.