BLUE CHRISTMAS
the name of a relatively new Advent servicefor mourners
This has been a dark year, when the arm of the angel of death
has grown sore from swinging his heavy scythe, eleven sharp
strokes in my circle of friends. And now it’s December, when
the rest of the world glitters like sugar, when stores drip
tinsel and ribbons, and the air in the mall is thick
with carols. For those who mourn, the sky is the color
of soot, and white lights hung on pines do nothing to dispel
the gloom. The year burns down to ashes, calendar pages
go up in flakes of char, the reverse of birds. Going
to the store for milk and eggs before it snows
is a minefield; you are bound to bump into someone
you haven’t seen in years who asks about your family— Then
there’s the checkout girl with the reindeer hat who brightly
tells you to have a happy holiday, and you can’t reply.
Sympathy cards are stuffed in the mailbox’s craw. If you
can get dressed before night falls down like a jail door
clanging, it’s been a good day. In the houses of mourning,
the holidays weigh like a heavy sack. In the corner,
the empty chair.
Barbara Crooker
