She was my first Happy in Christmas.
She flash floods generosity.
She organises her Christmas cards in piles to be strung.
She gives of the Christmas tin of Roses, with the faith she’ll receive a caramel barrel in turn.
She asks for paper, scissors, sellotape, and ten minutes of secret space.
She nods one deliberate nod, lips pursed, when I tell her and Zig their grandad will pick them up after school, as her dad and I will be on important business helping a beardy bloke in red.
She keeps her disbelief to herself in front of her little brother.
She delegates and supervises decorating the kids’ two foot purple tree; the one with the feather fluffy fairy lights: squeezing on baubles enough for a ten foot tree through act of will and an askance glance of pity at elegant sufficiency.
She fights with the descant in Ding Dong Merrily, and grimaces for the camera.
Christmas is safe with our Mol.
No comments:
Post a Comment