At five, fifteen years of buried treasure,
we didn’t bring a Christmas tree to life,
yet the air was full of breath and laughter.
The coin had changed—
its value thinning to a thread.
Like a withering flower,
yet holding one glowing petal.
At five, before turning twenty-one,
we sang our hearts out.
Christmas was richer than a Tesla dream;
its strings were firm.
Grandpa and Granny gripped them tight,
turning every second into jewelry.
At five, before the year of sadness,
we sang until midnight,
betting, waiting to be the first
to spill the magic word—
Merry Christmas.
Joy erupted into jubilation,
learning the ululation call.
Then, we were one.
At six, the soul lost its heart
when the mother of it all decomposed.
She carried our joy,
and laid with it in the grave.
Christmas reunions faded
the way days vanish into years,
yet a single petal of hope remained.
At twenty, the petal bleeds—
a fragment surviving the blade.
Grandpa answered the call.
Christmas ties were torn apart.
The union turns to onions in my eyes.
Still, I sing my heart out
beneath the Christmas tree after Mass,
but the ties, the bonds, are cut.