A box marked "fragile"
holds shining memories wrapped
in crumpled paper.

She lights up like a
firefly whenever you're
around, George Bailey.

Once a year. Each year.
They emerge, sparkling,
to be packed away.

The delicate glass,
like breath on a windowpane,
glitters and is gone.

This year, glass soldiers
wait, tissue-wrapped with angels,
in muffled darkness.

I hear your silence
echoing through the carols
louder than church bells.

If the glass shatters,
but you aren't there to hear it,
does it make a sound?