These baubles are tired and cheap
They are not on trend or stylish,
Bought from the charity shop all those years ago
To fill the gaps on our first tree in our first togetherness.
I did not think as I handed over the coins
Amid the Christmas cacophony in the village
That these would be important or even treasured
Years down the line
But every year they have loyally adorned our tree
Newly wed hands hung them tenderly
Clammy pudgy palms of babies and toddlers
Put them messily on prickly branches
Languorous cats batted them lazily from their twiggy heights
And always they mutely dangled between brasher, jollier ornaments.
This year, a teenager held one in her young hand
And turned it carefully, seeing for the first time the old fashioned pattern
And the tatty edges beginning to peel.
She said, I love these baubles the most,
And hung it visibly at the front of the tree
And I saw, in years to come,
Her standing in front of her own first tree
In her own new togetherness
Handing out the ancient, sorry sphere
To a sweetheart, or even a child,
And I knew that our snug memories and cosy love
Do not reside in big gestures or expensive gifts
But in the battered, cherished, simple presence
Of treasures handed down through time,
Held tenderly like a fragile ritual
in hands that have clasped mine.
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