You Brighten Our World

Thanks for Being Yourself

She is that slow pokey kid dragging her feet, Slowing incessant, important shopper progress Small smiles failing to reach their frantic hearts, Especially the ones they muster for others Because that’s what you do when it’s umpteen o’clock And not enough is done, not nearly enough to be ready For the most fraught, terrible, wonderful day of the year Saturating the air, capturing dreams and children alike.

Bemused man wanders aisle, phone clasped to ear, Taking instructions, repeating them twice, Careful placement of one item on top of precious wins Snatched from the clutches of wily competitors. Flash of awareness shatters willing doer of errands, Meander shifting to high-paced decisive, phone Jammed in soft corduory pocket of pants she keeps Throwing in the trash so he can save them once more.

Delight trills over close-hugged greetings of ones Who have not seen one another in what feels like ages When feet explored waves, buried themselves in sand. Hair is tossed, sly glances slanted at doe-eyed beauties, Heedless boys grown giant with time and distance, Broken hearts rushed past because it’s long past time To move on past what cannot be changed and never Was meant to be, not for them, not for anyone.

Efficiency triumphs over meaningful contemplation Of cakes, cookies, and pies, cheeses for tonight’s feast, Grinning at the tall man whizzing items through scanner, Handsome face intent on speed, heedless of bagger Begging him to slow down, bemused shopper delighted At swift departure from insanity, thrilled at her calm Despite so very many good reasons to panic Including mission-critical urgencies waiting at home.

I fell in love with the polite panic of suburban shoppers.

Not the panic, but the people.

Because there are people out and about, doing what we have always done, preparing and enjoying a season.

It’s the greeting and the tense conversations, the languid recitation of the ones who died and the others who won’t be at the table.

Detailed explanations of muffin tins are captivating conversation when you’re stuck on a line long enough to wonder strange thoughts best smothered in their beds.

I loved our intensity, the bustle and the mayhem and the store manager racing about to be everywhere, fixing and greeting, kissing friends and eying wavering stacks of cookie tins.

We are focused on making the best possible holiday we can — and for me and mine, we have made space for sorrow and heartache at the table, not having to set a separate space for them, because they will show up as they please.

My muses are with me, arrived with pink-cheeked enthusiasm and challenge.

“What’s most important to you?”

I answer.

They consider.

“Do that first.”

The bossy one I know too well tosses words over his shoulder.

“Happy Holidays. Don’t worry. We’ll be back.”