It's Over

It’s official,
the holidays are over.
They still haven’t taken down the huge Christmas tree
smack dab in the middle of 3rd and Norfolk Ave.
But, it’s over.
No more pine needles on the carpet.
No more round bottles of coke or green frosted cookies.
No more folding chairs or empty rolls of scotch tape.
The lights are unstrung and the dogs’ Christmas bones are nearly gone.

We’ve moved the stack of board games back to the basement,
and the boxes of decorations to the garage.
We’ve eaten the last of the cheeses:
cream, string, feta, parmesan, and cheddar.
We’ve tossed out the peanut sauce and fought over the tamales.

I’ve listened to why we can never watch the ball drop
since we have no TV.
And I’ve viewed the twins’ New Year’s resolutions written on
their iPod Touch's.
The electric bill is dropping, along with the Red Box expenditure.
School is back in session
and the dogs have been left with sweaters and dry food.
No more warm lazy days on the kitchen floor for them.

The mall is empty again.
But my heart is not.
My mind still carries the scent of garlic and meats,
the chatter of siblings, the laughter around the game table,
the ripping of the wrapping paper, the clicking of the camera
shutter, hearing everyone speak at once and understanding it.

I gladly change the sheets and give up my pillows for you.
I forego my shower (due to the line), my parking spot,
and my grocery money for the next two months.
I laugh with you, drink with you, shop with you,
argue with you and proudly introduce you to my friends.
I let you keep me awake with your late nights,
and I try not to wake you in the morning.

The holidays are over but the remnants remain:
ribbon, gift bags, a game piece behind a chair,
smaller bars of soap, your tracks in the snow,
new seasonings in the cupboard,
and new snacks in my drawer at work.
I cherish the pieces as much as the whole.

It’s not about holidays as much as
it is about gathering.
I am so thankful to have those who choose to
gather with me.

As we fall back into familiar routine,
brave the morning commute and the high school parking lot,
watch garden centers turn back into garden centers,
and see them finally take down that tree.
Don’t think I have forgotten you;
my Valentines.