There's something almost too festive about
dabbling out a Vince Guaraldi piece by the light
of tiny, white bulbs strung through pine tree
branches and bouncing off painted glass globes
while the spicy scent of gingerbread wafts in
from the candied boulevard atop the piano.
December used to be magic and maddening, holding
little lungs full of frosty air in transcendent
and excruciating waiting, slow and momentous. Then
we grew up and grew distracted from the distraction.
We watch the show play on from behind the side curtain,
looking out into the audience of awed children's faces
and yearning to recognize ourselves.
Christmas in Hampden by Idle Type
What do you miss most about being a kid at Christmastime?