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 [...]