Hearing voices. Voices here? His name is softy called, “Bobby,” gently called, “Bobby.”
Slowly he opens one eye, then one more
A morning of awakening,
Usually on this day
he would quickly set feet to floor
find the slippers, grab the robe,
and run to the tree
But this is a strange awakening
slower, more thoughtful perhaps.
Perhaps the heat from his dogs that surround his body
are like bed gravity
He is moving more deliberately than on Christmases past.
As i recall last eve and the service of song and celebration
The Annual Christmas eve service of the downtown congregation
There was an air of contemplation not seen before
But the songs it seemed still stirred his spirit.
And he sang aloud rapt with joy.
The lighting of the candles moved him visibly. And after the service on the ride home .. expectancy.
Bobby was expectant.
Or so I thought.
But not Santa expectant.
The Santa story was now fiction.
and offered no sense of wonder
But the Baby Jesus story. That sort of expectant.
That was a story of peace and goodwill.
That was a story that brought life.
Bobby stumbles to the bathroom
and rubs the slumber from his eyes
And then a brief glimpse to the mirror
and the greeting
Good morning Bobby
and Bobby is me
and I am alive to the morning
I am alone, with my dogs, with my thoughts.
And there is no family, there is no tree,
But here I am. I have aged since my last celebration
Of a childhood Christmas
Two score and five years, perhaps more, since I sat last with Mom, Dad, Sister, Brother.
But this is Christmas morning, And I unwrap my present
Another day of life. Grace. Undeserved favor.
I am blessed beyond measure
Merry Christmas to all.