If I keep my eyes straight ahead, I won't see it there,
haunting me from the corner of my eye.
 
The bits of straw under the table overflowing with food.
Tall twisty candles that made little eyes shine.
May I light the candles this year, Mama, may I?

Dad laughing, proudly bringing in the tree he chopped down at the farm before age, frailty and blindness robbed him of far too much. Little brother following, with frozen nose and twinkling eyes peeking out from his parka.

Auntie Emily laughing, big rosy cheeks like apples.
Eat, eat, little one, you're so thin.
Mama, I ate lots already. I have to save room for dessert.

Ragtag bunch of us, loud, laughing, speaking many languages. So many of us, Mama would open the door for air, nevermind that it was forty degrees below zero outside. 

Aunties and uncles, brothers and sisters, cousins and nephews.
Coats piled three layers deep on Mama's big bed.
Only twenty five? Where is everybody?
It's early yet, Mama. They had to work.

Uncle, did you know those felt boots of yours would parade through my memories for ever and ever? Almost the same color as Grandpapa's sweater.  But no. Don't go there. There's tears lurking there.

We always think we will look back on our tears, and laugh.
Older, wiser, we learn that we can look back on laughter, and cry.