Penelope Persimmon, had to summon all her strength

To fetch the cardboard box out from the shed

She set it by the Christmas tree, still unadorned and bare

As memories began to fill her head

Voices from the box called out, and whispered in her ear

They said, “We are the story of your life.”

“You’re still here, remember dear, you’re still the one from yesteryear.”

“You’re someone’s mother, daughter, someone’s wife.”

Even though that they have passed, they’re still living in her heart

And visit now and then inside her mind

She wonders why it is that fate, decided to choose her

To be the one that they all left behind

Like her, the box had withered, but its purpose still was served_

She opened it and knew what hid inside

The many decorations from her family’s Christmas trees

Awaiting to be hooked and hung with pride

Each ornament she found, reached back, and touched her on the cheek_

She put each one exactly in its place

As one by one, each dear lost soul, came back to life again

To put another smile upon her face

There was little Linda, as a tiny child once more

She helped Penelope to pick a bough

To place the little star she made, herself with sticks and lace

She knew her loving Mother would know how

Her Mama and her Papa and their parents and her son

Aunt Sally and her best friend Ann from school_

Each had a decoration, they had put inside that box

That they had each contributed for Yule

Penelope grew tired and thought, she’d better take a rest

Her years would not allow her to go on

When she awoke she hurried back, to dig into the box

But everything was hung and it was gone

All at once she turned around, and standing by the door_

Her husband Henry came and took her hand

She said “How can this be, you’ve been gone since 93?”

He said “Walk with me, I’ll help you understand.”

He took her to the bedroom, and there lying on the bed

She lay with Linda’s star held to her breast

Henry said, “You’re finally here my love; I’ve waited all these years.”

“Come say hello to Linda and the rest.”

Around the dinner table, everyone she’d ever loved

Was there; alive, they hadn’t aged a day.

She took the place they set for her, and they all said a prayer

To give thanks that she had finally come to stay

Penelope Persimmon’s end, came quietly and quick

It crept upon her silently like frost

She found the thing she prayed for, never traveling a step

A Christmas with the loved ones that she’d lost

 

Jeff Burkhart’s “Rhyme and Reason”