Going to Grandma’s for Christmas

A holiday poem in diminishing stanzas

Looking behind, I see trees growing smaller as we go. Birds are flying backwards against fat drops of snow — cardinals red as candy canes, geese honking in disdain.

I’m bored — we’ve not come too far, but Mum and Dad say stop: “Stop kicking seats and pulling hair and poking sister in the eye.” (She deserved it, triple swear.)

Songs wail and bop with Santa, tinny from seats in back, and now the car is stopping, yay! but it’s just to have a snack.

Grandma’s is still far away and Christmas farther yet. “No,” says Dad when I beg to play.

“Mum’s changing sister’s poopy pants.” Fine, I’ll give this car trip one more chance —

I’m sad when… “Back in the car,” says Dad.