On the first day of Christmas, Lit Mag gave to me, a poem by Jess Ricci ‘23.

Is It Really Christmas?
​
The turning of a minute,
When the time of year goes from browns and oranges to reds and greens.
Christmas time is here.
Lights go up.
Trees go down.
Ornaments and mistletoe and yellow twinkling stars.
Carols on the radio and a capella groups practice in the halls.
Volunteers work and good cheer.
It’s the happiest time of the year.
Except I’m sitting here
In tears.
Alone and unwilling to join.
I will never forget Christmas with you. 
For as many more Christmases I have.

Photo by Aléthea Vickerman ‘22

On the second day of Christmas, Lit Mag gave to me, a poem by Scrooge.

As pure white snow falls on the ground 
As carols are being sung work round
As bells ring their vibrant sound 
As the joy of christmas is abound

Snow falls on dead trees and cold people
Carols are sung as people stand on the street crying for help
Bells ring for Christmas, but also for funerals
As people enjoy christmas there are those whose only joy is surviving one more day

So as the bells toll, another another day accented by snow, on another day filled with cheer, keep in mind those adrift in those bitter winds you are admiring

Photo by Aléthea Vickerman ‘22

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On the third day of Christmas Lit Mag gave to me, a poem by Aléthea Vickerman ‘22.

A Mother’s Silent Night

Come my child
Sit in my embrace
Listen to my words
A story about God’s grace

Many years ago today
You were born at night
A gift from God
My great delight

The heavens rejoiced
With your father and I
Angels sang
Across the night sky

​People came
from near and far
To see my son
Led by a star

You are God incarnate
Son of God and Son of man
Messiah and Prince of peace
Holy since the world began

You are my child
And I am your mother
I am God’s humble servant
Filled with awe and wonder

Photo by Aléthea Vickerman ‘22

On the fourth day of Christmas, Lit Mag gave to me, a poem by Tiana Long ‘22.

The Holiday Season in a Nutshell
The smell of aromas are so fine
With confidence I’d say
My popovers are quite divine.
Hot cocoa, desserts, and laughter in the air,
The atmosphere is as sweet as no bills of healthcare.
The crisp cold air make my lips chapped,
This poem could be turned into a festive rap.
This holiday season makes me so full of cheer,
I can hardly wait to do the stanky leg
When I see the snow and reindeer.​

Photo by Aléthea Vickerman ‘22

On the fifth day of Christmas, Lit Mag gave to me, a poem by Addison Brenizer’25.

Christmas Lights
​
Darkest months
Of the year
Months for love
Months for fear

The illuminated string
Protects the night
The darkness hides against
The light

Red, blue, orange, green
Bulbs on roofs and windows
The rays of light in between
Shackle the evil

Christmas lights
Protect the warm
Defend the bright

Photo by Aléthea Vickerman ‘22

On the six day of Christmas, Lit Mag gave to me, a poem by Mirolla Boules ‘24.

Escapism
​
One by one they fall
All different shapes all different sizes
falling,falling,falling
They collect all together on the clear ground, 
its the first snowfall of the year and the snowflakes fall and gather together
I watch as they collect together merrily in this winter season
I watch them together from the frosty window
I watch their happiness as they fall and blow away freely
I watch and wonder why not me
Why cant I be as free
I watch as I sit here alone in a dark cloud 
Shivering and shaking
While a single tear falls and soils what’s left of my spirit
While the breath escaping fogs the screen of the window 
Blurring my vision
Shutting my eyes I can see the lights, I feel the warmth of fire I can taste chocolate and mint, I can feel warmth
I feel escapism 
I feel Free

Photo by Aléthea Vickerman ‘22

​On the seventh day of Christmas, Lit Mag gave to me, a poem by Elizabeth Kirby ‘22.

 a midnight waltz 
​
i am useless for 320 days of the year
even that is generous
long and hot summer days, wrapped in newspaper
carefully shoved under the roof eaves in the attic
waiting, waiting to be taken out again
for 45 days of the year
only 45 days that i might spend with my heart’s one true love the week of thanksgiving is bustling with anticipation
the holidays have arrived
boxes might come down from the unnished attic
the fake tree unpacked
the ornament box with me inside is set beside the tree stand the box of lights is dropped on top of my ornament box
the plastic container of christmas mugs
and towels
and bowls
and advent wreath
and nativity set is set beside my box
the other plastic container of bows
and wrapping paper
and tape
and stickers
and christmas stockings
and light up village houses
and the nutcrackers
all of us were holding our breaths
we wanted to be used and set out for all to gaze at
to see old friends who we hadn’t seen in a year
to see how the children of the family were growing
to be annoyed at the family’s pets
to come alive at night
to see the ones we loved most
mrs claus on a teacup in love with santa claus on a saucer
the angel tree topper in love with the stued animal gingerbread man
one of the wise men in love with one of one of the shepherds
the reindeer on the door hanging decoration in love with the snowman in the snow globe then me and my love
the love story to beat them all
soon the chattering of multiple families dies down
leaving the house family
they come over to our boxes
open us up
gasping as they see us for the rst time in a year
remembering fond moments with others
picking us up and inspecting us
making sure we aren’t broken
just our hearts though
but they can’t see that beneath our porcelain shells
the tree goes up and then lights and bows and the angel
now it is my time to dazzle and shine
they hang my string on a small branch in the front
there i am
silver and gold
my legs positioned in an arabesque
arms up and relaxed
i am beauty itself on this christmas tree
while the family is turned around i see him
on the replace mantle
holding his stoic pose
wooden arms pressed to his sides
and i know he sees me
and i fall in love all over again
it feels like the minutes may never pass
the clock might never stop ticking
never move its rusty arms to say midnight
the house now echos with the chime of midnight
the oor can feel the grandfather clock’s magic
it seeps through the oor
curling in golden spirals across the rug
up the couch legs
onto the table
up the christmas tree stem
to me
the world holds its breath for a moment
as we all take our rst breaths
the rst breath that breaks the breakable and makes it real and strong everything is awake
but everything waits
for us
i slide down the tree
he hops from his stand on the mantle
and we reach the oor
laced with magic
the music begins
a waltz
the strings play
the utes and horns come in next
drums beat as we make our way to each other
and there we are a breath apart and still we do not reach out
afraid to touch the other rst
and there the dance begins
my nutcracker
my love
takes my hands and guides me
his eyes stare into mine
as we spin across the rug
magic thrown into the air as we pass
surrounded by light
surrounded by our love
surrounded by magic
and we dance
he spins me and i return quickly
longing to be back in his embrace once more
the music never ending guiding our feet
the music stops too soon grounding us in reality
and there is christmas everything i could ever want everything i need
holding me upright
holding me tight
keeping me from falling
all through the night
as the snow keeps falling and the wind keeps howling the lights keep shining
and the music keep playing our feet never failing
our hands always clasping sun never dawning
magic never pulling
eyes always loving
hearts always beating
all through the night

Photo by Aléthea Vickerman ‘22

On the eighth day of Christmas, Lit Mag gave to me, a poem by Brooke Becchetti ‘23.

White Christmas

It has been so long since there was a white Christmas,
I think I was nine,
Marveling at flurries as they fell around a basketball hoop, both gleaming in the morning sun. 
The hoop is rusted now, as is the earth that peeks through each 25th. 
But tonight, I fall asleep with snow glow coming through my shades. 
Tomorrow I will wake and be awed by a fresh blanket, ready to be broken like the seal on wrapped gifts. ​

Photo by Aléthea Vickerman ‘22

On the ninth day of Christmas, Lit Mag gave to me, a short story by Victoria Parent ‘24.

Dear Santa,
The first Christmas I asked you for the stars, I was five years old. Other kindergarteners wanted puppies or ponies, race cars or marble jars, kites or bikes. Me, I wanted you to lasso the stars out of the air and wrangle them under my tree. I didn’t understand that the blinking needle points dotting the night sky were lightyears away, there were hundreds of galaxies between me and them and that science was only advanced enough to get humankind a miniscule distance closer to the stars. All I understood was my longing for them and the craving for them to be mine.
This year, a decade later, I still look up at the sky and wish I’d wake up Christmas morning and discover those twinkling spheres all wrapped up in red and gold. What has changed since I was a child is the way the stars appear above my head. If I try hard enough, I can identify lines connecting each light, forming crisp images of your magical eyes, white-bearded chin and upper lip and the wrinkled features on your face worn down over the centuries. You’re the stars, my dear Santa Claus. So far away, yet ever the more beautiful. My love, I’ll never understand why you made yourself impossible to obtain.
I don’t know if you still remember the time before you were in my night sky, but it’s so fresh in my heart that it stings like skin exposed to a freezing night. You used to be the lyrics floating out of carolers mouths, the melody of a child’s laughters during a light-hearted snowball fight or the sweet taste of peppermint, gingerbread or hot chocolate. You used to be so tangible during holidays that there was no strain to hear you, no lengthy wait to taste you or no effort needed to sense the love you emitted. There’s no way you could have forgotten how you felt when you were so close to me because I know you loved us together. You loved me. Don’t deny it. Don’t deny you want it back either. Don’t deny that you look down on me from the stars and grin when you remember last Christmas and frown when you realize you don’t have me for this one.
So my galactic Santa Claus, give me the one thing my heart desires. What our hearts desire. Give me the stars! Give me you! That’s all I want for Christmas. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.
Sincerely, your Girl on the Surface of a Snowy Earth

Photo by Elizabeth Kirby ‘22

On the tenth day of Christmas, Lit Mag gave to me, a short story by Frosty the Snowman.

Ted was twelve the first time his grandfather told him about snow. “Well” he said, “when I was a little boy, the snow would fall every winter, from November to February.” 
“That’s not true.” Ted scoffed. 
“You calling me a liar? Now listen. In November, the first flurries would fall, maybe coating the ground for a few days, then melting away. But those first storms... the snow would fall in puffy white flakes, and when the wind blew it felt like you were flying through a field of stars. 
Then in December came the blizzards, they’d draw white curtains so thick you could barely see your own two feet. It was on those days you’d stay inside of course. I would cozy up by the fire, a real fire mind you, not one of those fake heaters you got now, with a book and a cup of steaming cocoa and watch while the whole world would turn white outside my window.”
“Tell me more.” Ted urged.
His grandfather chuckled and sunk deeper into the armchair, thinking for a moment, “After the blizzard was always the best. Once the snow stopped falling I would go outside and all would be absolutely silent. If you were really lucky back then, the snow would block all the roads and school would be canceled. Snow Days we’d call em. All the neighborhood kids would get together and have snowball fights, sledding races, and hockey games on frozen lakes.”
His grandfather smiled in remincence, almost as if he could feel the cold kiss of a snowflake on his nose. 
“But no more now.” His smile faded, “Your mom said to have you in bed by nine.”
That night, Ted dreamed of snow. He dreamed of silent winter storms, of cocoa by the fire, of a world that slept beneath a white blanket. He dreamed of dragging a sled up a snowy hill, then riding all the way back down, letting the passing flakes speckle his cheeks.
“Do you think we’ll ever get snow here grandpa?” Ted asked the next day.
 The old man sighed, “No Teddy I don’t think it’s snowed in Mass since the sixties.” 
“Why not grandpa?”
His grandfather leaned back in his chair and drew a long shallow breath. A glob of spittle hung from his lower lip. “Because of us Teddy, we killed the snow a long time ago. Right along with the polar bears, the rhinos, and the bees. Funny thing is they told us, didn’t they. They told us what would happen if we kept pumping all that stuff up into the air. But no one took it seriously, hell I didn’t take it seriously. We kept pumping that smog up into the atmosphere and now the snow is gone forever. So no Teddy.” He gripped the sides of the armrest until his knuckles turned white as snow, “I don’t think they’ll be snow in mass for a long time.” 
Ted walked past his grandfathers arm chair to the bay window overlooking the front yard. In the driveway, his mother was struggling to pull the artificial Christmas tree out of the trunk. The lawn was cracked and dry, a few patches of yellow grass sprouting up here or there. It was the third drought of the year, no one could afford to water their lawns. At the center of the yard, an old maple tree sprouted, two holes were drilled into its trunk from the bird house they had set up last spring. Sap ran down them, as if the tree was weeping. Then Ted realized he was weeping too. He would never see snow. He would never know the silence of a winter storm, nor the joy of watching from his window as the world turned white. He would never skate on a frozen lake, never laugh after falling off his sled, never watch as the flakes drifted down like doves to blanket the ground. He would never know snow.

Photo by Aléthea Vickerman ‘22

On the eleventh day of Christmas, Lit Mag gave to me, a poem by Meghan Bourque ‘24.

​Snow, snow, white stunning snow
That blankets my body from head to toe
I lay on my back as the snow falls down
Each snowflake lands gracefully without a sound
My tongue is out and i have hope in my soul 
Attempting to catch the perfect flake whole
I star at the sky to see the different shapes
All unique with their own special traits
The surface catches them no matter their appearance 
They all are so different but together they work in coherence 
To accomplish their final goal of making snow piles
Where children can play and slide for miles
Each crystal units and molds together to become one
Until the work of covering the earth is done
And I get to enjoy them on this perfect day
I gaze at them in wonder and astonishment as I lay
The earth looks so wonderfully peaceful from here
Bright and calm, absent of fear
And all my problems disappear
And all my problems disappear

Photo by Aléthea Vickerman ‘22

On the twelth day of Christmas, Lit Mag gave to me, a short story by Brennon Schifman ‘23.

The Christmas Spirit

Harriet stared dead-eyed at the prompt on her test. In big Comic Sans green and red colored font said. “What does the holiday season mean to you?” The page was ominously blank as it had been for the past fifteen minutes. The clock above the door that spelled freedom from this forsaken class ticked with cinematically drawn out seconds barring on Harriet’s nerves like crayons down cardboard. She once again stared down the prompt as if intimidating it would help her to put something on the paper. She thought of how tired and stressed out her mother was. Christmas only ever served to worsen an already anxious person. She’d yell at the family to clean random parts of the house and try to hide her crippling fear when guests arrived. Harriet recalled her older brother’s girlfriend’s first couple visit to the house. Her mother stayed up all night ensuring the carpet was spotless and all the dog hair up. An impossible task but she’d keep doing it while muttering about not wanting Kyle’s girlfriend to judge her. Harriet formulated a ruff essay which involved pretty much venting about how her mother feared social judgment and moved on. Her immediate next thought was to her classmates. She made eye contact with her best friend Sasha as she was writing a most likely perfectly spaced and worded essay about the American Dream or some really obscure but deep thought about Christmas. Sasha’s intelligence had always seemed to thrive in situations where Harriet was struggling. The furious scribbles of Sasha only served to further the auditory hodgepodge that distracted her from her current prompt. She glanced finally outside at the falling snow that had begun to fall. Most of it wasn’t cold enough to stick to the ground and the snow that stuck became a gray mush very quickly. Inspiration struck, Harriet wrote about her mother and her friend about how the holidays mean anxiety for so many and even worse for even more. How all these different hardships made people who they were how it turned their snow mushy and gray. She glanced outside once more and looked at the slush. That was the meaning of Christmas, the beauty of falling snow and the slush that eventually followed.