This year, Christmas doesn’t hurt. My family is here. My two uncles are together again; two longtime friends who are drunk and happy. I am not depressed or anxious, just tired. 

Everyone leaves to go party at my uncle’s friend’s house. I watch half of “The Muppets Christmas Carol” and nap for an hour or two. Then I walk over to the other house and pour myself some mead.

Red cheeks in dear winter;
everyone has tequila.
We drive home slowly.

My brother dares Uncle Dean to walk in a straight line. Scoffing, he does so. We go inside. 

I make no frantic offerings to the gods and that feels good. I do not punish myself for failing to offer food or drink.

Faith twists easily —
Christmas is for family,
Spirits like parties.
I can’t call God my father.
I don’t let him call me son.
Goddess in the hall.
Red bows on the old coat rack.
I don’t want to pray.
Has faith brought me anywhere?
I open gifts with my mom.

We drink. We sleep. I’m asleep on the couch and everyone is in bed. Boxing Day means coffee and hangovers. I go home with my loot. I still don’t pray. 

Maybe I lied. 

Christmas hurt a little bit.

[Cardinal Streamstone is a polytheist living in so-called Canada. He makes devotional games, tells oral myths, and scribbles poems in his spare time. You can find more of his work at cardinalcreates.wordpress.com]