Crimson

Because the leaves are orange tinged with crimson,

the tree looks like its burning,

like a hundred long candles lighting up the afternoon.

The persimmons, not yet ripe,

are easy to cut through.

The core, or the pit, as the case may be,

is split down the middle along the crease

by my father’s rough, calloused hands.

The core reveales a small indentation of a spoon on its insides.

“It’s going to be harsh winter,” my father said.

“With a lot of snow.”

Now I await the persimmon’s truth,

and wonder if it could be right.

Because the leaves had all fallen to decompose on the ground,

the tree appeared to have tiny skeletal hands,

reaching down to steal me away every time the wind blows.

The snowflakes, sneaking their way to the ground,

begin to make drifts I fear will soon be taller than me.

I remember sticking my tongue out as a child

and catching the flakes to melt them.

Now, I only wish they’d melt me.

That I could disappear beneath these layers of white

and sleep away this winter like all the smarter creatures do.

Because of the Christmas lights on all the houses,

it looks like the snow is glowing.

It almost hurts to look outside.

I wish this Christmas would end.

I spent weeks preparing for the awful fact

that a child who isn’t, should’ve been today.

My father sits on the floor beside the ornamented tree,

watching television.

The screen might as well have been blank for me.

The scenes that were playing on my eyes

had nothing to do with Snoopy’s Christmas special.

This year, parts of me are missing,

and there are some things from which I could never return whole.