On my desk there is a stand,
and on that stand there is a red satin cloth,
with hand sewn embroidery of white roses and blue violets,
which was actually a kerchief that my grandmother wore,
she sewed it herself,
I think. 

And atop that hankerchief, there is a tree.
Plastic, of course.
from the dollar store.
mom got it for me when I was 5,
because I wanted to help decorate the real tree in the family room
but I kept breaking her nice glass ornaments.  
I still couldnt stop myself touching them, even after she said 'No'
admiring the way the metal and glitter and glass and silk of a hundred jewel colors caught the light from the lamp and the windows and the hall,
but only on christmas morning,
when I was excited
and everyone was asleep.  
But I never got caught.
I was careful.  

And on that tree, 
My tree, I mean, 
there's a crane.
An origami crane,
made of white printer paper,
cut into not quite a square and creased funny in places,
but I wouldnt dream of fixing it.  
Hope gave that to me in 12th grade, on Christmas.
That, and a box of lemon cookies, but I ate those.  
She moves away that summer.
She visits, sometimes, but it feels like charity,
because no one visits,
and she knows no one visits,
and I know she knows.  
Its probably why she comes and calls once or twice a year,
when she's bored.  
The crane wasn't charity though; the crane was Chrismas,
The Christmas when we laughed and sang and ate pumpkin bread, 
and we dreamed of tomorrows that were just like our todays but with better wifi connectivity.  
I have better wifi now, 
but less connectivity.

And under the tree, there is no present.
But there are cards.  
all old.
I don't have any this year.  
But I have one from my Bubbi, who is dead, 
It's written in poor english, in that elegant spiky hand that only she had.  
And one from Christina,
in purple ink, full of doodles of sheep, it was an inside joke that year,
I think.
And one from this guy who said he was in love with me.  
His name doesn't matter, you never knew him.  
I guess I didn't either.

Christmas is for people who like to remember.  
People who hoard relics of the past 2000 years of our Lord
and put them in various displays on walls and doors and tables and windows.  
We take these glowing orbs of what life used to be in the year engraved on the side
and we hang them on the tree of life,
and marvel at the grand tree's beauty,
as it slowly,
but surely,
loses its will to drink of the water.  

I wish there was a holiday for people who want to forget; 
Who want to forget the Hopes and the Grandmothers and the Christmases
and the cranes that carried our wishes up to the Heavens lo those many years ago.  

If there was, a holiday, nobody would celebrate it.  
If they did, they'd remember. 

I want to forget.  Move on.  Find a new dream better than what was,

One that can't leave me.

but I am thirsty,
and dry as my fake tree,
and for all the world, 
I cannot find
the will to knock the stand off my desk into the trash.