The NY Literary Magazine

A Distinguished Selection of the Finest Modern Literature

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childhood memories

A Christmas Card by Laura Rahill

I remember
a simpler time
when dad would come in
and we could smell the fresh icy air
of a day working in the yard
draped around him still
like the cloak of fatherhood

When the burn of the cold
still pricked our cheeks
as we giggled and slurped up
hot soup, strained of course
with spongy white batch
all prepared specially to thaw out
our snowman building bodies
and Christmas lights flickered
across our steamed windows
as the blue-black night pulled itself over
like a vale sprinkled with glitter

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