The partitioned entrance hall
of a grand old Victorian
formed our small apartment
that first Christmas.
A corner was angled
by a small gas fireplace
with tiles the color of jade.
 
We awoke, mornings,
to the clink of bottles
as the milkman
made his morning run.
Radiators groaned
and the toilet yawned.
 
Our space too small
to have a tree,
we decked the mantel
with pine boughs, colored lights,
exchanged humble gifts,
a small set of Chinese gods
found in an import shop,
two ceramic swans,
tiny and delicate.  
 
On an old mohair sofa,
in the soft glow of lights,
we sat holding hands,
alive with hope,
talking of the future,
our baby due in March.
 
We would never again  
be so poor…
or so rich.


© by Doris Bezio.
Used with the author’s permission.