By Sarah E. Murphy

I wrote the following poem in December 1991, for my mom’s birthday, when I was a sophomore at Bridgewater State College. At 19, I was finally able to grasp why she didn’t always seem merry in the weeks leading up to the holidays during my childhood, when she was busy making dinner for eight, teaching CCD, and putting everyone else’s needs before her own. When I needed her help making a Buche de Noel for 8th grade French class, I had no idea she was seeing a psychiatrist for depression at the time. I just knew the assignment left us both feeling completely overwhelmed, and to this day, I associate that festive dessert with anxiety and melancholy.

Today, my mother turned 88. Fittingly, she was born on December 22, the Dawn of New Light. I wouldn’t have the career or the life I have if it weren’t for the sacrifices she made, and as I sometimes struggle during this bittersweet season, longing for those days of Christmas Past, I am forever grateful for all that she has given me, including these figurines she presented me with today.

Christmas Trappings

As a child

I never understood.

I just assumed

you lived for

crowded malls

and extensive lists

carefully written

in crayon.

To me,

it was simply

the birthday

of Jesus

one for

for party and presents

like the birth

of any other child.

I wasn’t aware

of the spiritual significance

and what

it meant to you.

Why you put

such thought

into the positioning

of each figure in

the crèche

while I was impatient

to move on to

more exciting tasks.

I didn’t know

the anxiety you felt

the pressure to

put a smile

equal in brilliance

on all six faces

but I remember

looking to you

on countless Christmas mornings

after breathlessly

ripping the

recycled paper

off a coveted gift

to see a smile of relief

on your face.

I was unaware that

the only existing Santa

was my mother

and on the eve

of each Christmas

she’d be up

long after

Midnight Mass

after the

plastic candle

in each window

was unplugged

wrapping and tagging

humming a carol

to herself

In Excelcius Deo.

And each year

on that

magical morning

your six children

and Ophelia

would wake

you and Dad

on the heels

of the sun

while the donning

of robes

seemed to

take forever.

You always looked

fully rested

and excited

but never

for yourself.

I hope you know

that long after

I’ve forgotten

a talking doll

from 1978

I’ve never forgotten

your efforts.

SEM, 1991