grief, grief at Christmas, illness, illness at Christmas, lament, Poetry, twelfth day of Christmas, twelve days of Christmas
On the last day of Christmas, there were no drummers drumming or pipers piping. There weren’t glittery lights and shiny paper.
No gifts remained to be unwrapped. No large feast with twelve close relatives.
Instead, on the last day of Christmas, there was a hospital room with a soul slowly slipping away. A haunting rendition of O Come All Ye Faithful piped through the television speakers as a code blue was called overhead.
The last day of Christmas was filled with a stale silence. The quiet room was stirred awake by the running of nurses down the hall to resuscitate a life.
A birth was forgotten as death remained in the waiting room.
On the last day of Christmas, true love wasn’t about extravagant presents but about decades-long soulmates singing the final verse of their song together.
And as the tune came to a close, the lone partridge scurried away.