Orange Christmas

The memory forever burned in my mind,

Overshadows the rest of the day.

A little girl just stirred out of bed,

To the living room, she makes her way.

The presents are plentiful,

Under the tree brightly lit.

She crawls around them,

Tries to cheat just a bit.

Her sister reminds her to wait,

For Mom and Dad out of bed.

"You can open your stocking," she says,

To the girl who blushes so red.

She skips to the dining table, pulls out the chair,

Climbs up on the seat.

"Which one is mine?" she excitedly yells.

Licking her lips for tasty treats.

Her sister slides one her way, taking one for herself,

The girl pays her no more mind.

She reaches inside, closing her eyes.

Whatever will she find?

Some lip balm, some candy, a miniature game,

A necklace that's shiny like gold.

A toothbrush and floss. She shakes her head,

Looks outside where it's blistering cold.

She digs deep to the bottom, and feels a big ball,

She gasps and gives it a pull.

This isn't a toy, she thinks with despair,

As she holds it up with a lull.

Her sis has one too, and smiles galore,

As she pushes her stocking away.

The little girl gives her a look of confusion,

As she starts to hum and sway.

Chin on her hands, the little girl moans,

Some Christmas! she already thinks.

As her sister peels her beautiful orange,

While taking a sip of her drink.

The little girl, bored, looks at big sis,

Who offers here a wedge of the fruit.

The girl takes and shoves it all in her mouth,

Then peers to her warm winter boots.

"Outside?" she asks, pointing to the window,

To the cascading flakes of white.

"Dad will be up any minute," sis says,

And the girl doesn't put up a fight.

She gasps in glee as she hears the squeak

Of her parents' bedroom door.

"They're up!" She yells as she scoots herself

Off the chair, to the chilly floor.

"Breakfast first," Dad says ever so sternly,

Vying to teach patience and rules.

She scarfs down the cereal as fast as she can,

Her siblings who don't are the fools!

Dad takes his time reading yesterday's paper.

And the little girl can barely contain

Her excitement over Santa's haul

To the little house on the plain.

As he takes the last sip of coffee and cream

The family heads toward the tree.

The little girl's eyes get wide with delight

As she wonders, what could these all be?

Gifts are passed, and she opens with care.

New clothes, a new doll, and some games.

A Snoopy coin bank, a McDonald's playhouse.

"I wanted this!" she proclaims.

As brother takes the paper out to the trash,

She assesses all her spoils.

She wonders if she's the only kid she knows

Who got the miniature toy of coils.

Or Shrinky Dinks, she'd wanted them too.

In the oven, they'd go after dinner.

A lode of new stuff, she hauled to her room,

Feeling an absolute winner.

The following years, she'd make up her list,

And Santa would come while she slept.

She'd relish all the colorful packages,

And all the findings she'd kept.

Until time would pass, and distance, too,

As she made a life of her own.

Christmas wasn't the same anymore,

Not now that she was grown.

She missed not the toys, nor the jewelry.

Or clothes that she grew out of way too quick.

She missed the sweet taste of that succulent fruit

That tasted like it was just picked!

She uttered not a word for many years

What was eating her up inside.

While spending holidays away from back home

All she wanted, no one did provide.

Until she met a young man who wanted to give

The world to this once little girl.

So she told him her stories, the good and the bad,

Dropping the wall, her arms unfurled.

And he listened intently, hanging onto her words,

As she talked of laughter and pain.

He tucked the tales in the back of his mind,

Where for a time, they'd remain.

Until that one Christmas Day, she spent with his family,

A newcomer, welcomed by all.

For each gift given, there was one in return,

Treasures both big and small.

"A new tradition," he said at the end,

Pointing to the back of the tree,

Directing her to look for her very last gift,

One she couldn't foresee.

A stocking had been hidden—it was just for her.

She smiled, her hands to her face.

It was heavy and full and gorgeous red.

She carried it back with grace.

Then she shoved her hand in, digging deep to the bottom,

Eager to see what was there.

She squealed with delight as she pulled out an orange.

Its beautiful aroma filled the air.

He'd do this for years, never to stop.

Something for her alone.

An orange in her stocking every Christmas Day,

Such incredible love it had shown.

Fifty years old, and she'd say it again:

The money that's spent doesn't impress.

It's the littlest thing, like a magnificent orange

In her stocking, that makes her feel blessed.