I.

Had Mary and Joseph arrived at the north
town Marriott on Christmas Eve, they'd have found
20% occupancy, two empty presidential suites,
a dreary-eyed hotel manager fumbling
a fourth time through the Post.

In the adjacent restaurant, newlyweds spoon-feeding
each other apple pie. An elderly man and wife, unable to bear
their daughter's "guestroom," staring
blankly at a potted plant, waiting
for their appetizer. An airline pilot sipping
coffee and studying
window-shoppers out his window, clutching
his cell phone as if the hand of his daughter, who still hadn't
called. An embarrassed mother and father simultaneously trying
to stop three young boys chasing
each other around a table, while giving
their order to the waiter.

Then, with the suddenness of a newborn
star in the sky, they'd have witnessed the voice
of the cook, alone in the kitchen. A tenor,
in Spanish, singing "Silent
Night," silencing even the young boys, who at first
turn to stare at the thin white door,
then one-by-one hum along.
The parents, smiling, would feed
their children the English words, and soon
the waiter would accompany them nervously.
From the corner, the elderly couple, still
staring at the plant, would add bass and alto,
and then the newlyweds, even the pilot, would sing loudly,
so the sound sweeps
from the kitchen through the restaurant and to the lobby,
where the lone manager mouths
the final "peace."

II.

Fifteen years and still she wakes
before dawn each Christmas looking
for him in the empty side of her bed—
only on Christmas. Most of the time
she has forgotten so much of him
that she's scared that he was never
there at all, but this morning she reaches
for her eyeglasses, grabs a cane, and lifts
herself out of bed.

She stops at a mirror, in the moonlight, and thinks
"This frail, wrinkling body, what will he say?"
then gently pushes open the bathroom door and calls
him. He is not there. She turns,
grabs her shawl, lights a candle, and passes
into the living room, aglow
with a Christmas tree decorated by grandkids.
She approaches his stocking over
the fireplace. It is empty. She checks the kitchen,
floor creaking with each step,
grabs two glasses of milk and
sits at a wooden table, waiting,
as she once would while he snuck presents
in from the shed in the backyard.
But the only presents are those she placed there
weeks ago. He is not coming.

She returns to the bedroom,
looks at their wedding picture—
so young—
blows out the candle,
lays down beside his empty space
and watches his pillow.
She closes her eyes.
He is there.

III.

As children on Christmas morning
we would find the hallway between
our bedrooms and the living room barricaded
by an old, red rocking chair and an orange
armchair. This was, our parent's explained, for our protection,
and though not absolutely impenetrable,
because we feared the presents might vanish
before our eyes, the five of us spent the first waking
half hour politely tapping on the wall
to our parent's bedroom, wishing in hushed whispers
for the latest G.I. Joe or My Little Pony.
The next half hour we raised
our voices sneakily, playing with last year's toys
one last time, hoping to accidentally wake
them. Then, the not-so-subtle banging.
It was time. But not yet, they would say, emerging
in clumsily worn red robes—our father had yet
to set up the video camera—this vintage 1979 electronic beast
that emerged once a year out of its dust-
covered box, so my father could spend half an hour remembering
how it worked. We jumped around
on the barricade peaking, groaning
each time my mother said, "Wait."

At some point, we realized
that videos and cameras were meant
only for Christmas. That some future race
might stumble across archives of family video tapes,
thinking this was the culminating event
of humanity—lives strewn together over time
like lights on a tree; the between time—
simply wires connecting our Christmases.

Or maybe the between time never was.
We lived our lives day after day, coming into view
as we dashed single-file around the corner of the hallway,
stopping to marvel at cookie crumbs
on the coffee table, with accompanying Santa-signed note,
then falling cross-legged around the tree, waiting
first for our mother to hand us stockings
of chocolate, oranges, and candy canes,
then tearing apart the wrapping paper, hoping.