Life is not a straight line
Or an uphill climb
It isn’t a present to open
Or a holiday that’s past
It’s a skein of yarn the cat’s played with
too long
It’s driving fast down a mountain
with hairpin turns and switchbacks
It’s a gift you wrap for someone else
with extra tape, and hide under the bed
Only to find years later, paper torn and faded,
and give it to yourself.
It’s hours and days of waiting, shopping, cooking
and getting ready
for a holiday that never comes.
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