auld lang syne by barbara darby

Prompt: alive at midnight

I want to stay up! Let me stay up! he pleaded
cheeks rosy with fever, a dripping nose
the foreseeable result of Christmas
 
more presents from Santa than ever before,
more solicitous relatives,
candy canes and cookies,
late nights and noise
 
You won’t be awake at midnight, she said
you’re so tired
comfort-tucking him in

everyone meant well
as they joined together
trying to help him forget how sad he was
for a few hours at least
 
I’m so sad, he’d cry, so sad 
too small  for bigger words
 
She remembered how, years ago
when they were also young
they’d join with friends
set off fireworks on the old year’s last night
smoke cigars
 
Later, when they were looking for security,
they lied outright to the insurance agent
I’ve never smoked
and he winked at them
Me neither
 
She remembered his face in silhouette
lit from behind by the December flowers
sky-bursting above them
blue and red and yellow and white
 
They saved the biggest and best for last,
tried to time them with midnight.
They shared a kiss.
 
Last year, he fell asleep on the couch amidst the revellers
and they awakened him to watch the fireworks
held him between them as they all looked into the brightened night
and tried to sing auld lang syne
 
no one knew the words, really
they just knew it was important to remember
 
She kissed her son and closed his door
crept downstairs to drink a cup of kindness
wondered if she’d make it to midnight
like every kid resolves to do
I’m so tired, so tired
 
sleep most nights eludes her
the other only things awake
the noises of unseen things under the bed
bumping in the dark against her loneliness
 
I’m so sad, she thought
and raised her glass in a toast to old times and love
 
she heard the fireworks outside the house
the neighbours eager to welcome in the year
making resolutions to remember old acquaintance
and she resolved to do the same
 
She made her way back upstairs
nestled against her son
under his warm quilt
and felt the comfort of his little, sleeping form
as he rolled into her alive with mumbled dreams
his father’s son

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Barbara Darby lives and writes in Lethbridge.