Despite the years of vacuum neglect,
5-year-old raisins that found their home in a corner,
the carpet made a home for
The Christmas tree, artificial,
purchased from a seasonal store
that once sold Halloweeen costumes,
that will soon sell bathing suits.
The Christmas tree, whose branches hung bagels,
gave more light to my father’s character than
The Menorah, on the kitchen counter, unlit.
The Menorah, waiting to burn the
seventh night of Chanukah,
held only two firmly-standing
rainbow-spiraled candles.
We lost count.
My father, still hung up on bagels,
bagels still hung up on branches,
moved out on the next holiday season,
per my mother’s request;
my mother prefers toast.
I tried on a smile on Christmas morning
but there was no one to wake up at 5 AM,
except my mother, who exhausted all
her holiday cheer on Santa’s billing statement,
no help from Daddy.
One present: a sled.
It never snowed that year.
I tried to ride down the iceless, frostless hill,
but I didn’t get too far. I could not see past
the trees, the real, genuine trees.
Now our Christmas tree,
is naked.
Our ceramic menorah
is somewhere in our basement,
in a box,
hiding in an Easter basket.