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Wonder

Ute Carson

Christmas 1944, our last festivity on native soil.
Refugees are streaming westward.
Two months later we will be among the fleeing.
Russian troops have set fire to villages nearby.
The bridge over the river below our castle is destroyed.

But our devoted forester lumbers in from the dense forest
as he always does at this time of year,
his shoulders sagging under a blue spruce
which he places in the parlor.
My mother and grandmother decorate the evergreen.
I am four-and-a-half.

On Christmas Eve, the large French doors swing open
and I am spellbound by the sight
of a tree with candles ablaze.
“Did the angels bring us all this light?” I whisper.

Now years later, the childhood magic settles
like stardust on my aging eyelids
and I dream of that Christmas Eve
when wonder was my reality

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