Snowsong

It was never about the tree, in spite of it's earthy fragrance that brought to us memories of better places, better times. Nor the ornaments with which we decorated it, silver and gold and colored and opaque, which hung prettily upon it's boughs and branches. Nor the presents, gaily wrapped in newsprint and shiny and expensive paper and topped with bows and lace.

It was not about the cocoa, steaming, or the music which rang through the house as we danced and sang and smiled at each other. It was never about that, though your voice was mine to keep, to treasure.

It was not about religion (God no!), or commercialism; our consumer duty forgotten as snow formed a pale and chill blanket which enveloped the features of the land outside our window. But we remained inside, safe and protected from the season's fell weather.

It was you- always you. How many times did we repeat the same old dance? 50? Every year, no matter that the tree was real, that you bought me slippers every time, that the ornaments were old and dusty- so we became, but always together, always dancing, and singing and laughing. Always.