The Joyful Mysteries (I)

The way we made sure the entire tree glowed with
only blue lights you’d think we were calculating
the atmosphere. This was our time to be sad,
though we never said as much. Something turned
in the evening every time. And before either of us
could think about changing its tone, the room
was engulfed where we sat dressed up and saying
so little the snow could nearly be heard. Then
the furnace kicked on and we both rose at once
to see the white weather gathering over steps we
would soon walk down to get away. From what
we weren’t sure. The vagueness of loss, a death
too cumbersome for his wife, more puzzling than
his last daughter could carry past a sentence
or two. “The year has been good,” my mother said.
“Unplug the tree and let’s go.” Then we did just
that before we had time to say more about love
than we can.