The snow falls new upon December,
And along with our other expectations
We relive favorite memories.
The wreath on your door stares at the wreath on my door;
Our lifestyles become traditional
And "I'll be home for Christmas."
It takes longer to get up the stairs to the attic now,
But the neighbor boy Larry helped me
To carry down my decoration box--
Covered with eleven-month dust.
He laughed when I showed him the 60-year-old shepherd
That my best girlfriend Annie gave me one Christmas.
She lives only in my photo albums now;
She always loved my mincemeat pie.
The shepherd is made of brass and needs polishing every year;
As I polish the shepherd I think of Annie.
Larry is a pretend shepherd in a play this December,
I gave him some sheets for his costume.
December can create a silence at night even in Boston,
The snow muffles the sounds of autos.
I hear only the sounds of carolers
And distant trains.
I think every town tries to remember Bethelehem
In an attempt at respectful quiet.
I have celebrated many Decembers and each has marked
My history like few other months.
Perhaps this year I'll finally remember all of Joy to the World,
Perhaps I should have kept a diary,
Perhaps I should be grateful,
A toast to all Decembers!
(published in the "Golden Globe" [vol. II, no. 12/December, 1986],
official newsletter of the Senior Home Care Services-Boston III, Inc.)