choosing baubles

I talk to my parents on the phone. they're excited for me to come home for the summer. on Thursday we will find a tree and hang the lights in the lounge room. every year we sweep the ash from the fireplace to make space for the nativity. I remember helping build the stable out of bark and choosing baubles for the branches as a child, when time was too slow and tomorrow was a treat I couldn't wait for. though the feelings have changed - and that line of thinking is foreign to me now - the charade remains the same. we sing the songs that once stoked the excitement with petrol. I lay the baby Jesus in the hay under an angel. the glow of the lights on the tree washes softly through the hallway til the morning.

I come home with baggage. the weight of knowing how things are closes my heart away from the child that prayed for gifts he never needed. the smile in dusty photos on the mantel is no longer mine. the hope in his eyes makes me laugh. he knows nothing of the bombs or how he'll learn to hate the mirror and the world he cannot change. to see me in his future would be enough to wake him up and yet we share a name and vital organs. like him I will hang the decorations and hold my mother's hand in church. we watch cartoons and look for chocolate in the fridge. the people seek relief and we are just the same: there is comfort in the trivial until tomorrow comes.