’Tis the Night Before Christmas
’Tis the night before Christmas, all silent, all still—
No stir in the house, no joy to fulfill.
Stockings drooped empty, by embers so bare,
Waiting for Santa, who never came there.
Little Emma curled tight by the fire’s last gasp,
Daddy’s locket crushed to her chest in her clasp.
His voice haunts her dreams: “I’ll be home for the snow,”
But the war stole him gone, twelve Christmases ago.
Tears carve her face raw; she wails to the dark,
“Mommy, it hurts—ripping my heart apart!”
Mama sinks down, broken, her own sobs a knife,
Clutching their girl as life’s meaning turns rife.
No reindeer, no magic—just wind’s cruel keen,
Then a bell chimes faint, like his laugh in between.
In that shattering hush, love’s ghost wraps them whole:
Daddy’s embrace, mending two shattered souls.
Christmas? Just him—their forever-lit flame,
Burning eternal through endless, cold pain.
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