Almost Holy

Christmas morning always feels strangely white.

White light.
White silence.
White sky over M.

I woke up late because the apartment was unusually quiet. No traffic yet. No telephones. Just old music playing softly somewhere distant because Mam apparently believes silence itself requires soundtrack supervision. The living room still smelled like candles, perfume, pine decorations, and wine from last night.

Christmas after midnight is always my favorite part.
Not the dinner.
Not gifts.
The aftermath.
The softer version.

Mam was already awake wearing cream-colored cashmere and reading near the windows with coffee beside her. Elegant even while half asleep. Honestly unfair. We opened gifts slowly while Beatles songs played and pale winter light covered everything. Nothing dramatic happened and somehow that made the morning feel even more emotional. Dad called around noon from G. I could hear cups, a television, and cigarette smoke somehow through the phone line even though scientifically that should be impossible. Then later M. called briefly sounding tired and warm and happy in that quiet way boys become after family lunches and too much food.

He said: “I miss you. Merry Christmas”

Simple.
No performance.
No irony.

Honestly more dangerous than poetry.

After lunch I stood near the windows for a long time watching the city move slowly below while daylight already started fading. Christmas always disappears while it’s still happening.

MERRY CHRISTMAS.
Remember me,
Eclipse