Christmas Without Jesus

During the week

before Christmas without Jesus,

I prepared for my

annual solitary sleep, made the bed

with my new broken heart for a pillow

and the religion of my birth was my blanket,

the generational quilt my grandfather sewed with

the sweat of his soul

when astride their horses,

the Cossacks rode through his ghetto, 

set fire to the poor hovels

tied his hands as he witnessed

them murder his brother

My white skin made me

invisible, alien in your country

where all the big families drive 

to Midnight Mass in their bright new cars

of red and green

(except for the children who ride their new bikes)

We met as students.

You welcomed the tears I shared

in encounter class. "I loved it 

when you cried," you said, and

hugged me first to your heart

before you dared pull me to your loins

because he, another Catholic, had already

claimed me

and I refused to let him go although

he dropped me over the cliff, into

the oily sea

two weeks after

Thanksgiving holiday.

"You can't be alone for Christmas,"

you said.

"I always am. I get

many things done on that day.

This year

I have gathered up all

my clothing that needs mending."

You took my hand,

"This year you don't need to sew,"

and helped me pack a small bag,

Took me home to Christmas

with your father, your mother,

eleven brothers and sisters.

We went to Midnight Mass

with your aunt (mother's sister)

and uncle and twelve cousins

who lived in the house

next door. The church welcomed

the stranger,

but I was restless

Back in the house of your family

you hugged me good night,

gave me your bed, slept

on the floor in your brother's room.

When she understood that,

your mother, satisfied,

made gifts for the grieving girl student

who had never known Christmas:

a covered hanger for my mended dress

a knitted bookworm to mark

the books I read

a blue cotton nightgown for my

solitary bed