HOLIDAY WRAP MUSIC

by Rose Rosetree

Sixty is the new 40, but not at Christmas.

At 59, I can smell my future. It is pickled herring,

not figgy pudding.

Clue One is the holiday lights. They go up

in my neighborhood, up in the shopping mall,

when it is barely October.

Do I feel "Magic of the season"?

No, I feel, "Wasted electricity."

I hear my own shout out and it is bad.

Despite my better judgment, or at least my ideals,

the cookies do not entice me. Even worse,

they don't entice me yet I still eat them.

One friend decorates gingerbread men with icing,

carefully dotting each eye and crossing each boot,

neatly, at the ankle.

Her sourpuss husband volunteers to decorate one, which he does as a naughty baker

whose chosen ideal for a cookie is "Vampire."

I sympathize. This is bad.

"Scrooge" is the common name for a grumpus

who loathes shopping lists and finds cards a chore,

someone who dreads reading even one more year-end brag letter.

She is at risk for exploding from lack of fresh air.

Surely, since the bygone days of Dickens

someone has invented a better name than poor miserable "Scrooge."

I think I'll call myself "Someone who decides for herself

when to celebrate, thank you."

But when I must go to the high school band concert,

here comes a crack in the hardened icing of this Christmas cookie.

A clarinet soloist, warming up... even before I know

that she is to be the big concert soloist, this strong girl surprises me

practicing fearfully

yet with athletic delight.

When she takes the stage, out comes lyrical blue notes, strung like sapphires really,

with red runs like ribbons, and pauses of green.

A standing ovation is given her then

Also honorable mention, now,

because of what her music has shown me.

The spirit of holiday isn't remembered

as much as retooled. The memories, I realize,

need not be used for comparison. Let them be recycled as gift wrap

for a fountain-fresh, teary rebirth.

If I wish, I can reinvent a name for it, too,

so I choose "Joy."