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On the eve of Christmas Eve

It was a tradition,

All four of us would beg

For one gift.

A sacrifice, of sorts,

from the bounty under the tree.

Back then, four or five presents

Was the norm, and half of them

Were underwear:

Day of the week panties,

Super hero drawers, socks;

We knew them by their feel

And opened them last.

I’d like to say one year

The sacrificial present

Was some long-wished for

And well-deserved thing,

But it never was.

There were games, dolls,

Heated blankets, plastic horses,

Robes and candy–

But none of them compared

To the wanting,

The hope, anticipation, projection

Of the one great thing

That would change our world.

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