Boxing Day
Boxing Day isn't our holiday
since we are neither British
nor Victorians, and the idea
that we could ever afford to
employ servants is laughable.
More likely, we would be the
downstairs help, tending to
the wash, polishing the brass,
until this day on which we
would enjoy a few hours away,
finishing off the leftover goose
and pudding and candied fruit.
Not our holiday, no, and not
actually our lot in life, but
being the Anglophile that I am,
I like to note the 26th, and
explain to the uninformed,
the significance of Boxing Day,
and after so much indulgence,
I do see the pleasure in less.
Less waste. Less noisiness.
I like to imagine the clean lines
of boxes wrapped in plain
brown paper, tied with twine.
I like the idea of the gift of
idleness and the romance of
returning home, a whole pantry
in hand, to a humble bit
happy time with my family,
the second-hand efficiencies of
thrift paired to the grand sigh
of a day without work to do.
And I enjoy the thought of
a great empty house with fewer
people and less bustling about.
So quiet, you can hear the snip
of the cigar cutter and the
updraft in the fireplace and
across the house, the echo of
footsteps on a marble floor.
More uninterrupted space and
a dormant place to pause and
rest one's eyes. One quiet day
before we give in to obligation.
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