Son, after you have gone — risen early in the dark to leave —
the scent of fried eggs and coffee wafts up the stairs.
I still hear your excited footsteps as you readied
for the ski hill, gathered your gear, turned to say
a last farewell. Me, barefoot, half asleep,
you wide awake, going somewhere good
that is surely called 'the rest of your life'.

Our gifts simple this year — chocolates and nuts,
warm socks, no cards. Both of us, tired of the clatter
in the world, took money to the food bank instead.
Arm in arm on our walk by the sea, we spoke
of the full moon on Christmas day as though
this was miracle enough for each of us.


© by Judith Heron.
Used with the author's permission.