The December Poems: Four

Dear Santa, the Elves, Rudolph, and Mrs. Claus,
I’m writing this letter to the lot of you in hopes it
reaches the one of you with the proper kind of
magic. My wish requires a special touch, I fear.
You see, all I want for Christmas is joy.

I want the joy of a young child on Christmas
morning as they see what Santa left beneath
the tree. I want the joy a mama feels on
that first Christmas with a new baby. That
pure, unmatched joy of love and belief.

I want my family to have that same joy;
the joy we had before grief snatched our
smiles and broke our hearts. The joy
of life before loss, before death, before
bitterness, brokenness, bleak midwinter.

I just want the joy of the season, the joy
of love, of hope, of peace to fill us each up,
for the feeling to last all year long, for our
smiles to stay, for our hearts to heal; for
joy. Please and thank you, A Sorrowful Mom


The December Poems: Three

Things come in threes. Death so much so that
breath catches, toes curl, time pauses upon
receiving the news, and every ring of the
phone for the next few weeks sends icy
fear to my core as my brain maps out
the location of each of my people.

Births. My mother, brother, and I all fall
within a ten day span. All three of my
babies slid into this world in less than
a month—with six years between.
When one mama announces a pregnancy,
others quickly follow; something in the water.

Rivers. Dimensions. Stooges. Point turn.
Musketeers. Little pigs. Piece suit. Ring
circus. Legged race. And wishes are best
when the Genie grants you three. Father, son,
and holy spirit; and oh, the three wise men
with their gold, frankincense and myrrh.