taking down the star

Here it is again. The time for our new

But familiar friend, who became so homely

in our home,

To lose her dress; I use to tell mom

That I didn’t want her that way;

Naked, and cold in the living room

Stripped of her dignity—like

The way we brought her in.

That it wasn’t fair; that we

Could keep her until February.

 “But it will be dead by then.”

Mom would say.


I remember rising early, a shadow

In the cool morning; tip-toeing

Down the spiral stairs, just to experience

Her gaze.

I would sit for hours at times,

Just watching her; the way

Her fiery crown grazed the ceiling;

Standing so tall and full—

My choice.

And the smell, of smelling

Free—how I loved to

Just lay beneath her skirt with the windows open,

To mingle in her pious scent with the breeze.


There’s just something about her.

Even now, when 

she umbrellas no more

then one gift for me.

Perhaps it’s the way,

she revives the embers of good times:

Memories of friends and family,

Ghosting in and out of the kitchen;

Sweaters— cookies— spices—

Coffee with excessive sugar and cream:

Like the way Aunty always drank it.


Smiles were etched on then,

Laughter mixed in well with

The warm hearth, that glowed

Off peoples’ skin. I learned a lot

about just living from all of it.


But the time is here again,

To disrobe and chuck you into the street,

And sweep the floors

Of your dandruff;

How I’ve always hated this

Goodbye. So difficult,

To see this season, go by;

You will be an orphan once again,

Picked up and treated with rough hands

Who will take you to another house

And burn you more fully.

I always hated this saying off,

And I know it was because

I was saying it to more

Then just you—

Until next year.



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