Time For the Sappy Stuff

I can't wait for it to be time to go home for Christmas.  I haven't seen Sister Little or Rock Star Boyfriend since September and July, respectively.  I see my parents quite a bit, but it seems like the more I see them, the harder it is to leave every time.

Every year I write a Christmas poem that I send to family.  I started doing it my first year out of college - 1996, to date me - because at that time I was too poor to afford Christmas cards.  I made $18,000 a year and paid $300 a month in rent.  I remember I couldn't even go on extra errands because I had to ration my gas to make the weekly commute to the next town over, where I faxed things for a living as an assistant account executive at a public relations agency.

So here is this year's poem.  Season's Greetings, Internet.  Merry Christmas.  Happy Hanukkah.  Holy shit.

Understanding Love

Christmas 2005

Scientists found the molecule

that produces romantic love;

its effect effervescent for only one year

before the brain grows numb.

Ribbons, wrappings, receipts and coupons

I let weigh more than deserved.

Years passed without anticipation

of more than getting through

December.

In the stores, my daughter shrieks with delight

at the sight of a twenty-foot tree.

Her grasping, tiny, pudgy hands

seize everything she sees.

As we walk, we swing her in between us,

connected by who we’ve made.

Love, from soul or chemical reaction,

repeats passion already played.

My mind, how quickly it needs a hit

of objects or fame or love,

and shocking how fast it can be reset

by these people who are my home.