Christmastime: [kris-muhs-tahym]

I find it harder with each passing year to make Christmas magical. At what age did Christmas become a reluctant holiday instead of a happy one?

As a child who believed in Santa Claus until she was 11, Christmas was a day of surprises and excitement. My sister and I waited at the top of the stairs until my dad finished filming our untouched living room, filled with presents and anticipation. Then we galloped down the steps and turned the corner as my dad's camcorder captured our amazement. We rushed to the kitchen and Santa's empty plate of cookies was checked for crumbs of evidence of his presence (as if the gifts weren't proof enough). Wrapping paper was shredded to reveal a new Barbie doll or Lego set. Squeals of delight echoed downstairs as we ooh'd and ahh'd over our toys. Nothing seemed so perfect as the smiles on my parents' faces as they saw their girls rejoice over Santa's short visit.

It's difficult to remember the years in-between when I was old enough to know better but still young enough not to care. I think it was still all about the presents, at least until I went away to college. And then something changed. I saw Christmas as a time to reconnect with family and old friends. It wasn't about the material things, but rather the people who I took for granted all year long. It was time to celebrate our bonds and cherish the times we spent together. I think the four years I was away made me realize the meaning of Christmas everyone kept preaching about. It wasn't really an epiphany, per se, but it felt like I had discovered some privileged information. Something I often forget nowadays.

Now I struggle to keep the Christmas spirit alive. My grown-up eyes see everything a modern day Scrooge would point out. How do I push out negativity to make room for holiday cheer? I don't have the answer, but I'm certainly looking. Even if it seems the path is covered by a light dusting of snow. Maybe I'll be visited by three ghosts on Christmas Eve. I hope one of them is the college self I strive to get back in touch with. I hope another shows me what I'm missing this year. And the last predicts two outcomes: how it will be and how it should be.

Let's hope I don't turn green and grow Seuss-feet.

Introduction: [in-truh-duhk-shuhn]

I ask you to take a piece of me
and hold it up to the light
like a prism

or press your nose against the glass.

I say hold a moth to my eyelashes
and watch it flutter with my breath,

or barge inside this dark room
and grope for my hand.

I want you to swim
across the channel of my cheekbones
creating a rosy blush stroke by stroke.

But all you want to do
is place me in a petrie dish
and examine the patterns of my voice.

You begin stabbing me with pliers
to find out if I really bleed.