Brown Christmas: A Poem About Growing-up Southern
It never snowed on Christmas in Houston.
Growing up, the December was nippy-
and browning grass was crisp with frost.
Our breath rose in puffs before our faces-
but snow never fell on Christmas day.
I didn’t mind that Christmas’s weren’t snowy.
We had everything we really needed.
Stocking hung in front of Grandma’s fireplace.
Grandpa’s painted Santas lined the counter tops-
With the big family tree with presents at it’s skirts,
Even the humblest gift was a Christmas miracle.
On Christmas Eve we’d go to Grandma and Grandpa’s-
and wake early on Christmas morning.
the smell of cinnamon rolls and coffee filled the kitchen-
as kids run around passing out the gifts.
From youngest to oldest we took turns opening-
wrapping paper and metallic bows covered the floor.
the kids have all grown-up and moved away-
we left the southern, brown Christmas’s behind.
Out west in Utah the Christmas’s are white.
Many of our traditions moved on when we moved away.
But this morning Christmas was as brown as it was back in Texas,
and I realized some things never change at all.