Today we mined a reunion
from our attic,
disturbed the dust,
awakened the boxed.

Sis was there in a little red chair
Mom's star-laced fingers,
faded pink and bygone silver,
and from a year's sleep --
hosts of granny ghosts.

A squashed can sprayed gold,
a cherub face with mouth agape
and flattened bow for wings
that flew friends in from long ago.

Suspended crystal tears
weighed by the years --
Aunt Gena and Uncle Ted
back home from the dead.

And Pop pops in the bubble lights
stamping ho ho ho Christmas Eve nights,
kids giggle, shriek and wait inside.
They're all here --
remembered as lighter
eyes and faces brighter.

Foil of red and green
not from a machine
but cut with cousin hands.

From islands like St. Croix--
crafters and their families
and salt of summer's toil.
Visitors from Utah and Eureka,
sisters uuhing, hahing, and clucking
at purple partridge and pewter duckling.

All around the tree they hang
some tinkle and  some clang
the drunks and crazies put in place
against the wall or near the base.

No matter their warts and faults
nor if they two-step, frug, or waltz
nor if they're irate, grave, or sedate,
whether they smile or disagree
all are welcome at our tree.

This reunion assembled each year
brings mostly joy, laughter, and cheer
but just a sprinkle of sadness for those
here only in spirit, sunbeams, and snows.

12/13/2002

Posted on 12/13/2002
Copyright © 2024 Glenn Currier