Perfect Christmas

A few weeks ago my mom and I

spoke of Christmases gone by.

She told me of a year

still stuck in her mind.

New house was being built,

not even close to ready.

They’d worked so hard to finish it

but Christmas came already.

It had made her sad,

and worried, too.

How could they give us Christmas

in an empty house that only had ,

bare walls,

a roof,

half a kitchen,

a fireplace,

and one single carpet.

I looked at her,

confused, abashed.

She was talking of the very same

Christmas Eve and Christmas Day

that’s my all-time favourite.

It was Christmas

twenty years ago.

The only one I still remember

so clearly from that time.

True,

the rooms were empty,

physically.

The walls were naked,

just bare drywall,

screwheads showing,

putty stripes and dots all over,

twenty packs of parquet piled in one corner.

But in the corner opposite

stood our Christmas tree and gifts.

The presents piled imperfectly

were waiting as if magic.

Just that morning, from the woods,

(no silicone, no glue, no plastic)

we brought the vibrant-scented spruce.

And then there was a big old carpet

reddish brown, bit worn and tired,

in the middle of the living room

in front of crackling fire.

All of us, we sat on it –

toes warmed by stripey woolen socks –

(a Christmas gift from Granny)

and played five-hours long Monopoly.

I can’t remember if I won,

(most likely not –

I was ten)

But even if I lost the game,

(again, very probable)

I remember thinking

even then,

at the age of ten,

that I’ve won the liftime lottery.

My mom and dad were there with us.

My siblings all beside me.

We ate a roast and something sweet,

and finished off with mugs of glögi,

a proper, steaming Christmas treat.

I don’t remember empty rooms

or anything unfinished.

’Cause to me the house undone

was a home

filled with love and endless fun.