This little ornament. This one little piece. It is all I have left from my childhood. The final concrete reminder of a mother and father.
Every year when I unpack the ornament and the lights and the tinsel, I think "This is the year I throw it away. This is the year that I move on." But I just can't seem to drop it in the garbage. Letting go sounds so easy, but I know that I am afraid to.
So every year this one small ornament goes onto my Christmas tree to remind me.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
~Ornament by k's mumbo jumbo~
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You probably think it's fun for me, like I do nothing but sing and dance all day. Let me tell you, singing and dancing gets old real fast. And enforced merriment isn't exactly merry, if you know what I mean.
Yeah, you can make me sit in this hollow tree. You can make me smile and wave. You can make me wear these ridiculous clothes. You can smile and laugh and call me cute.
You can't make me like it.
This little ornament. This one little piece. It is all I have left from my childhood. The final concrete reminder of a mother and father.
Every year when I unpack the ornament and the lights and the tinsel, I think "This is the year I throw it away. This is the year that I move on." But I just can't seem to drop it in the garbage. Letting go sounds so easy, but I know that I am afraid to.
So every year this one small ornament goes onto my Christmas tree to remind me.
You can tell brooches like this by their positioning against the smooth plaited madras cotton shirts of old women. Antique women named Gerty or Babs frequent the year-round Christmas stores in touristy locals on the edge of wooded theme parks or on their early morning walks around large shopping malls.
They buy goods like these well ahead of time, potentially as early as May, and by the time the first of December roll around they pin them proudly to their shirts---always to the left of the right breast pocket, a pocket likely to contain at all time a folded lump of kleenex.
Jule nisse they call me up here in the far north, in the circle at the top of the world. Christmas elf, to you. At first I was furious, trapped in this circular prison. It was meant to be a drum head. All because I screwed up on that list one year. A hundred years ago, man.
The head man, he's really just another elf, thinks he's the big cheese, and my mess-up left him with egg on his face. Beard. Whatever. I guess I've got a mixed metaphor omelet here now. Whatever.
So if you think the head elf could have it in for you this Xmas, just cause you messed up once or twice, watch out. Let my hundred years inside this big fat zero, be a lesson to you. No more fury, just damned depressed. You better watch out.
I can't wait until New Year's Eve. Then the old man and the baby with the diaper can take over.
Don't get me wrong, my importance to children is not lost on me. But, give me a break. I've been working hard all year - seeing who's naughty or nice, reading lists, overseeing toy production. For the new year, all those two have to do is show up at midnight.
It really isn't fair. But, that's my job and I do love it.
Remember, I am always watching you.
Take us home, Rudolph! Ho, ho, ho!
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