Aftermath. They went back into their box, the shiny balls and sparkly strings, the lights, the red and green, and all the things no one believes in. Someone asked ‘Who made this one?’ A daubed reindeer, it’s glitter balding. It was a hopeful child, certain that He would bring the gifts and make the magic. There might have been confusion about babies and stables. Another slipped-away year: do you remember? I sigh, easy at the space appearing where the decorations had posed for weeks and I wonder at everything that happens between the scent and light of the unpacking and the putting away. Again.
