Special is not always pleasant |
Sometimes sadness springs where it shouldn't when memories are taken out and examined like the Christmas tree baubles that lived in a box in the attic and had a special smell all of their own The excitement of waking to find my feet restricted both by a sock filled with gifts, and a pile of presents "He's been." those simple words still spark a thrill of recognition though now my own are grown and never will I hear that phrase again one year brought a heavy rectangular present I couldn't think what it was usually there was some inkling after all, I'd been careful to write to Father Christmas so he knew what I'd like I set the mystery aside to savour as I opened my sweet hoard some of which indeed were sweets eating too much before dinner was a common mistake in those days eventually the moment came frugal as ever my mother had reused wrapping paper by the time I was old enough to notice it didn't matter the carefully preserved sheets were a part of our Christmas I unwrapped that heavy block which still weighs on my mind for it was a disappointment a volume of 'The Lord of the Rings' that I didn't want ungrateful brat I hated its weight such a book was impossible to read comfortably why couldn't it have been three paperbacks? I hid my disappointment but not my guilt and now, once more, I've dusted it off and shared it sadly. Line Count: 37 Written for The Writer's Cramp - 26th December 2021
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