What it's all about
He'll keep asking what this euphoric sentimentalism is all about. I have an answer, but I can't tell him.
It's him in front of me, hobbling slightly, using his crutch to straighten the Christmas Star on a tree he didn't even want. It's that I won't spend these holidays missing him. It's his guitar waiting, anticipating the evening.
My gift for him was a horrible car; his gift for me was holding on, not letting that canyon draw us apart. There's no way I could even that up.
He stares and knows what I'm thinking. His smile is my Christmas.