At Christmas,

there is me.

 

Then David.

Then Mary Beth.

Then Eileen.

Then Tim.

Then John.

Then Rosemary.

Then Laura.

Then Marie.

Then Kathy.

Then Teri.

Then Geri.

Then Jeanne.

Then Rita.

 

pat-as-babyEvery baby is the Baby Jesus.

 

One Christmas morning sixty years ago,

Mary Beth suddenly grabs

a metal fire truck from my grasp,

leaving me with a short, thin slice of blood on my palm.

Nothing to be done but find, unnoticed,

a Band Aid in the bathroom.

 

We are the brothers and sisters of Baby Jesus.

 

God hides,

like a

small

child,

for

fun.

 

Patrick T. Reardon

12.7.16

 

This poem was originally published by Silver Birch Press on 12.6.15.   It is included in the poetry collection Requiem for David to be published by Silver Birch Press in February.

Written by : Patrick T. Reardon

For more than three decades Patrick T. Reardon was an urban affairs writer, a feature writer, a columnist, and an editor for the Chicago Tribune. In 2000 he was one of a team of 50 staff members who won a Pulitzer Prize for explanatory reporting. Now a freelance writer and poet, he has contributed chapters to several books and is the author of Faith Stripped to Its Essence. His website is https://patricktreardon.com/.

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