Another Holiday At Home

The frost on the window is jagged tonight,

sharp glass cutting shadows on the walls.

The heater sputters like it might give up,

and we all agree not to notice.

❄

Outside, the snow swallows sound,

a silence too perfect to trust.

The world ties itself in blinking lights,

as if a little sparkle makes the problems go away.

❄

Inside, it smells like burnt cookies

and pine needles slowly rotting in the stand.

Walter tells a racist joke that doesn’t land,

retelling it louder, as if volume makes it true.

Karen laughs too hard, her voice cracking,

because it’s easier than crying.

❄

The tree leans a little too far to the left,

held up by sheer stubbornness

and a prayer no one has the guts to say aloud.

Gifts stack at its feet,

wrapped with the precision of folks

who don’t know what anyone wants.

❄

The holidays have teeth.

They bite when you least expect it—

a song on the radio,

a place set for someone who isn’t coming.

You can smile and pretend it’s fine,

but the season remembers.

❄

Even the joy feels haunted,

as if on borrowed time,

as if the lights might flicker out

and leave you with nothing.

❄

Yet, there’s a kind of magic in it—

not the kind that warms your heart,

but the kind that whispers,

“You made it again, didn’t you?”

❄

So you lift your glass,

toast to the things that haven’t left yet,

and let the firelight flicker against your skin,

daring it to speak up.