The Night Before Christmas 2009

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through my pad,
not a damn thing was happening—it was really that bad.
The ghosts of Christmases past plied for holidays before,
but the memories weren’t that good, so their taunts were a bore.

My family was nestled all snug in their beds,
while I huddled in fleece from my toes to my head.
As I waited for Santa, I was plagued by swine flu,
and vestigial phlegm from bronchitis, too.

But the plague didn’t rage, and it wasn’t exciting—
it was slow, amateur—it wasn’t worth fighting.
The swine made me lax with its lack of predation:
Diarrhea? Insomnia? Not worth medication.

But I didn’t have the spirit to raise a fist
(I hadn’t even compiled a carol playlist),
so I waited it out, took my pills twice a day,
kept myself quarantined and helpful friends at bay.

While visions of company danced in my head,
I wondered what I’d done to deserve this, instead?
When what to my feverish brain should appear
but the reason for my isolation, quite clear:

2008: I’d left family and weather properly bleak
for tubing and sunburns in fair Mozambique.
I’d spent Christmas with strangers, and even on a plane,
and the jilted Christmas spirits had remembered my name!

“Christmas Eve was mundane, but tomorrow will be worse—
after last year’s half-assing, your Christmas is cursed!”
“But my tree—” “It’s not real, neither fir nor pine.”
“It’s Korea. If I cut down a tree, it’s a crime.”

“Precisely. You’re not where you are meant to be.
That’s two years you’ve deserted your family.”
“Our Christmases weren’t happy. They were worse than this flu.”
“But if you were with them, they’d be in quarantine with you.”

Well, that little jab stopped me dead in my tracks,
and up rose a memory of a December long past,
when the holiday footmen weren’t Dasher and Comet—
nope, Christmas that year flew in on vomit.

The whole family was sick; we’d been so for days,
and we spent Yuletide in a dehydrated haze.
The exchanging of gifts was laidback and placid;
we six lolled on couches, exhausted and flaccid.

Mom made a huge bowl of rice pilaf for dinner—
after days of soda crackers, that meal was a winner!
When you’re too weak to speak, it’s harder to fight;
I seemed to remember an okay Christmas night.

Spending Christmas abroad makes you grow up hard and fast,
when you can’t do the things you’ve done in the past;
can’t see the same people, can’t eat the same food—
can’t even leave your room ‘cause they’re paranoid of the flu.

The allure of Korea had long since worn off,
replaced by fatigue and a rattling cough.
I longer for the familiar, but it was so far away—
across the Pacific, behind a whole day.

My family may have fought, but they sure weren’t boring.
I missed them. I wanted to wish them good morning.
I wanted to add to their holiday cheer.
I wanted to hug them. I wanted them near.

On my Christmas night, I stayed up real late,
so I could call my parents once they were awake.
It wasn’t the same, and it wasn’t ideal,
but I wasn’t alone, and Christmas finally felt real.