In Your Truth (Whatever it may be)

Six years upon my chest,
hidden from the white giant,  
clothed in red or green and seen again,  
again this time of year,  
threatened at children in supermarkets  
"He'll not come." A dumb false promise,  
I once knew from my Mother home,  
a threat that falls on numbed wounds. Soon,  
the day will be distant, reminded with insistence "You should be grateful,  
for this and that."  
Forget the aggression, the thrust berating,  
that made the 'stuff' worth nought worth saving.  
 
Six years of freedom from the pressure,  
of Christmas fever, of Saints and believers,  
of old traditions stolen from many faiths,  
of words and forced dinners taken hours to make.  
People sitting pretending to be close, when they live cross country from coast to coast, because they didn't want to be near,  
keen to avoid, the ones they kiss and play-act are dear in this void  
of human honesty, surrounded by wasted money, wrapped up in unrecyclable paper, gifts no one wants and yet will save that truth for later. They'll make a squish face and nod,  
and lull in the glee eating Celebrations by the five or twenty three.  
The children will cry, so overwhelmed by the transition from a normal routine to this awkward position of gifts  
they promised they wanted nine weeks ago  
but now can't remember and are scolded with a blow  
when two hours later they're wanting old favourites  
and claiming they never asked for the new bits and pieces.  
 
Six years of New Year with friends at the table, where they let out a sigh and indulge without fable, or too many snacks, not ten desserts or cheese course,  
but a warm fire and mulled cider and laughter without force,  
songs we all love, not just played from November to sell an idea  
we'll be drummed to remember  
and my daughter at the table
bringing in a New Year which is bright, a fact we're all lucky for, to all a good night.