aged hands light Christmas candles,
alone at home though her family is near.
Tears trickle with liquid love, reliving holidays past,
with children and grandchildren gathered
in a cacophony of grownup laughter,
baby's cries, childhood play, and teenage angst.
But not this year.
Now, she is alone in her silent night,
lonely night, lonely night.
Two doors down the dawn will come
to babies she will not see.
Little feet will race down stairs,
delighted squeals above the sound of tearing paper.
But not for her.
This year has taken many things from her:
ability to travel,
pure breath free from the filter of a mask,
financial security,
social stability.
But the greatest toll is being alone
on this silent night, lonely night, lonely night.
Her mind reaches back to a couple, young,
frantic in their need in that quiet Judean town,
turned away from human dwelling,
alone beneath the light of a single star.
Amid the agony of labor,
a young woman pleads for her mother who isn't there.
Filled with desperation,
a young man yearns for the steady hand of his father,
nowhere to be seen.
They, too, feel socially distant, isolated.
Silver starlight descends on angel wings as
Joseph kindles his lamp in the stable
alone among beasts, though people are near.
Even shepherds keep their distance when they visit,
faces hidden beneath their scarves,
because they are called unclean.
Tears trickle with liquid love, celebrating this present moment,
grateful for what he does have:
the warmth of a stable, the love of his wife,
a newborn child,
in a cacophony of stable sound,
and it is enough
on this silent night, lonely night, lonely night.
Grandma's heart reaches to the tent city
surrounded by bustling town,
figures huddling beneath discarded layers
of thin tarpaulin, wet cardboard, and sodden clothes.
Turned away from human dwelling,
alone beneath the light of a neon sign.
A cacaphony of souls scream in the night,
a bit of raucous laughter,
others cursing ghosts of the mind,
still more finding solace in strangers' arms
or the warmth and oblivion of a pipe.
Silver starlight descends with visiting angels
who bear no gold, frankincense, or myrrh,
but whose treasures smell like coffee,
protect like masks and wipes,
and feel like love.
So Grandma puts on angel's wings, which look like PPE.
Leaving her warmth to join the Seraphim,
she shares her manna of blankets and smiles.
Keen ears listen to well-traveled stories from a safe distance
as hot tears warm her cheeks with liquid love.
It's Christmas in pandemic,
but change is in the air.
The Star shines as it hasn't done in centuries,
and hope for the nations wispers peace
to a weary and war-torn world.
"No room at your inn," say the mandates from above.
So Grandma takes her love outside
and gives,
behind mask, at a distance,
but gives,
on this silent night, lovely night, holy night.
