by Colette Tennant
A pink Christmas tree
the color of a kind of happiness
only children understand,
and a church music box,
its plastic steeple surrounded
by glitter for snow,
and ribbon candy
curled like hyacinth buds,
and me – the only child there.
I wish I could find that room again,
greeted with the smell of boiled chestnuts
peeled by my grandfather’s penknife,
greeted with too many kisses.
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