My memory is of a table
Upon it, colorful Christmas cards
I lick the stamps because I’m able
As Mom writes her holiday regards.

A few years later, I sign my name
In crayon, beside my mother’s script
Soon after, my sister does the same
In a child’s scrawl, crooked and clipped.

The years marched on, and I did witness
The joy of the season was no more
For Mom, magic had gone from Christmas
Sending the cards had become a chore.

The old address book, in stagnation
Sat forgotten in the kitchen drawer
Others’ cards became decorations
Scotch-taped around the living room door.

When I’m a grown up, I thought back then,
I’ll resurrect the old traditions
I’ll choose Christmas cards with care again,
And write the magic compositions.

My old address book, full past reason
With great people known and places been
A joyful wish this Christmas season
Seems a small price for the gifts within.

Each season I search, and hope my find
Makes friends and family laugh or smile
With tea in hand, and magic in mind
I’ll sit, be grateful, and write a while.

Thanks for readin’!

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