Alan Cleaver

to do with the gifts?

The American Girl doll:

under our bed for over a month  

whose eyes match yours,

 the color of Jamaica’s sky

 holding your mother

when she went down  

to see her toes through the water

like she could never do in the Sound.

The gravedigger truck:

how you would have drained the batteries

by the time the holiday ham was cold.

In the laughter and cacophony of Christmas day,

we would have forgotten you in your silent play:

except for the horn and room – just the pitch I taught you –

 coming from behind the couch

where you unfolded your whispered stories.

The diamond bracelet:

you would have opened last

as the red wine filled your cheeks.

The still shining and slightly wet hair

from your night shower – how I loved the way

the soap aroma would rise off you as you collapsed

drunk on the bed, already purring to the world

in your content dreams of marriage, children

and sleeping till noon on Christmas day;

I know a bracelet is not a ring,

which I promised soon – so very soon –

when the next promotion comes

and I am finally here to stay.

The footie pajamas:

these were probably your last ones

with your hair growing in dark brown

tresses down your back

that you promised never to cut after 

you were three and cotton candy

went all through it 

(Mom didn’t know what else to do).

When you were nervous your upper lip, fat and filled with blood –

would appear the same as the first time when you were

eight months in your mother’s womb, safe from this world,

and your grandma promised us a 3-D vision of

your growing – and you said I won’t look

like a boy ever again,

so we picked out zebra print

pink pajamas for you to curl

next to us on Christmas night

when you are exhausted and I

am too to climb the stairs to bed.

The flashlight:

in your stocking

will not be turned on

because it was meant to remind

us of the candles you placed

around the house – even in rooms no one was in –

last summer

as the thunderstorm ravaged the old oak

in front of your dream white New England cape    

while we played monopoly

savoring crisp salads born from your garden

and plump grapes while slow summer shadows

grew into night.

You would have laughed to remember

how happiness comes to the truly unprepared

in sheets of pouring rain and soft hands

entwined on the table.

The Lego pieces:

will stay boxed,

another unopened gift.

You were so patient with my thick fingers

and bad eyes as I read the directions slowly.

I was forty-five when you made me a father –

afraid to be mistaken as a grandfather –

you made me feel so young

and full like nothing before.

You always liked to  

take the pieces and arrange them in colors, then by shape,

so sure that the world works

in uniform. The burst of joy when the last piece

locked and I would want to say

let’s not touch it

but you would be off torturing the spaniel

with your newest invention, jumping and falling,

until pieces were all over the living room floor.

You fell asleep on the rug

as boys and dogs should do and you did

so adeptly.

The presents are sleeping

peacefully under the tree with

the receiver no where

to be seen, asleep in  

a moonlight field.

The presents were for another time

when small creeks follow their natural

course to oceans before letting go.

The presents were wrapped and bowed

before the shooter came

through the door

breaking mirrors all over town.

If they stay unwrapped

and the tree stays green

and lights never waver

in the winds;

If I stay still

and replay the opening

that would have happened –

creating a framework where you are

still alive;

then just for a moment

what has happened to you

is just the unwrapped potential

of quiet presents and bright colored paper.

Sitting alone with your presents,

you have just gone out for a walk,

riding your bike, hiding in the house, needing

some time alone until your steps bring you back.  

I will not unwrap them –

they are yours

though you are gone,

no longer needing the offering.

But if you were here

don’t forget the one way in the back –

the secret prize that

must be found:

the ornament of the year.

The winner places it on the tree

every year from now on –

 in the middle, as high

as the founder’s arms reach.

The eternal reminder of the year

we had, we shared, we cherished

so intently it cannot be stolen or

destroyed or corrupted.

The presents are yours and will

stay wrapped until you

return –

a candy cane

leaking out of your mouth

as winter cheek presses against my

stubble skin that I have not shaved since

while your sticky hands try to tickle me;

your giggle resounding this Christmas morning.