The Truth About Tigers

According to the cheerfully decorated box,
my morning coffee offers
subtle notes of dark chocolate
with a delightful hint of peppermint—
a special holiday edition,
in early November.

The neighbors have strung their lights,
red and green already blinking,
while an inflatable sleigh
and eight tiny reindeer
stake their claim on the front lawn,
in early November.

At the supermarket, classic rock
has been replaced by Nat and Bing
and the Vince Guaraldi Trio—
silver bells, soldiers dreaming of home—
as I push my cart past aisles
heavy with plastic joy
and pre-packaged nostalgia.

It happens earlier every year,
this slow creep of Christmas,
wrapped in cheer and optimization,
built for the fourth quarter.

My first instinct is to scoff,
to roll my eyes at the whole thing—
the tinsel-covered capitalism,
the forced good mood.

But the coffee really is good.
The neighbors look happy,
laughing as they string the lights.
And in the grocery store,
a child sings along,
off-key and fearless,
and I remember a feeling
from a long time ago,
when I was small enough to believe
things would be okay—
at least for a while.

It’s been a long year,
after a string of long years.
If people need to call up
a little warmth early,
who am I to argue.

Even in early November.