A quarter of a century of Christmases without song, No carols are sung door to door, no lit up neon driveways of ghostly reindeer. No midnight mass, although some gather to acknowledge the day. The bible still is carried by people, mostly end of day prayers. The Pope is somewhere in eastern Europe hiding from execution, because the church as it often does had a hand in the wars. But what remains are the tender moments between families, the chance to reflect on the last year, and how we survived. And once in a while a mistletoe will hang overhead, and you’ll get an unexpected kiss, its warmth lessening the December air. 

And maybe if you dream hard enough, you’ll see your childhood tree again, turn around on christmas morning as your father beams with pride for being able to provide, your mother watching the joy with tea on the kettle and cookies in the oven.

To be home on Christmas morning again.