Maybe This Year

I sit by the window, the frost on the glass,

Watching the snow as the moments pass.

The lights in the distance are bright, they glow,

But they can’t warm the places inside that feel cold.

I dream of a mom with a voice soft and sweet,

Who hums Christmas songs and makes cookies for me.

She’d smile as she’d hand me a cup of hot cocoa,

Saying, “I’m glad you’re here, Timmy. I love you, you know.”

I dream of a dad who would laugh when I fall,

And pick me back up, saying, “You’re strong, that’s all.”

He’d teach me to fix things, to ride a bike,

And ruffle my hair, saying, “You’ll be alright.”

Maybe a brother who’s older and tall,

We’d wrestle in snow till we can’t feel at all.

A handshake, a secret, our club just for two,

A best friend forever—could that dream come true?

And maybe a sister with pigtails so small,

She’d steal all my crayons, and giggle through it all.

“I love you!” she’d squeak when I tried to act mad,

But I’d laugh, ‘cause her hugs would make me feel glad.

I picture a tree that’s so big, so bright,

With shiny glass ornaments that catch all the light.

Underneath, there’d be boxes with ribbons and bows,

And my name on the tags, because someone would know.

But it’s just me and the window, the snow and the sky,

And the lights that look blurry, though I don’t know why.

I wipe at my cheeks with the back of my sleeve,

Because boys aren’t supposed to cry, I believe.

“Please,” I whisper, so quiet, so small,

“Let someone see me. Let someone call.”

I close my eyes tight, my breath fogs the air,

And I make my wish like a prayer hanging there.

Maybe this year, a mom and a dad.

Maybe this year, I won’t feel so bad.

Maybe this year, they’ll know I’m alive.

Maybe this year, they’ll see me, and I’ll thrive.

The snow keeps falling, the lights stay the same,

But my chest feels too tight as I whisper my name.

“Timmy,” I say to the frost on the glass,

“Maybe this year, my wish will come fast.”