The Art of Moving On

This winter, while I forget you, the frost
doesn’t come. No snow falls Christmas card perfectly
on the blood red robin and I wonder why,
supposing that – as with everything else – it’s
simply because nothing ever does work out
quite how you plan it.

Others feel it too. Unmoved by the nativity
display made entirely from Quality Streets
in Tesco, I notice instead that a woman
holding her child’s hand as he squeals with
delight has plastered her smile on this morning.
Someone has forgotten her, too.

My fists curl. Damn them, whoever they are,
for leaving her alone at Christmas. A man has
knocked his trolley into me and I’m crying over
his stupid brussel sprouts while he apologises
and offers me a tissue. There is love everywhere
and I miss you; you and a year’s worth of us.

Waste. I straighten a box of crackers on the shelf
and zip up my coat. On the first day of Christmas
I’ll stop myself from mentioning you and by the
twelfth, wrapped in January’s promise, someone
else’s name will make me excited for the spring. I step
outside and walk onward, into the December cold.


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