Christmas comes and goes,
year after year identical scenes
only set in different towns and countries,
always a green spruce,
always real candles,
always presents,
handmade then, store-bought now.

I do not want to break tradition,
rotate from household to household,
put up electric lights,
hand out gift certificates.

I am stubborn as an old ox,
holding fast to the familiar story,
reimagining my childhood world
where constancy reigned,
a bulwark against
life's unpredictability.