I liked those scrawny trees
that leaned to one side, and you
always had to add a branch
to the open spot in the middle,

and I liked those colored bulbs
exploding with a flash and a pop,
and the ones like lava lamps
that could never settle on a branch,

and there was nothing under the tree
except the little town of Bethlehem,
looking more like Pennsylvania
than Palestine in the snowy hills,

and then, on Christmas morning,
the presents, unwrapped and
mostly practical, but always
that one special thing—
a blue typewriter for me,
bee-bee guns for my brothers,
a Chatty Cathy for my little sister,
and a pedal tractor for the baby.

You were always the best gift,
watching through the French doors
from the kitchen, making sure
everything came out even.

© by Joyce Sutphen.
Used with the author’s permission.