Christmas Swell, Kids Must Sell

a home that turns into a red and green tapestry after how many moons,

the smell of the balikbayan’s specialty of goat stew and barbecue. 

when every member of the ancestry is in its right place, 

each of their names engraved on a piece of card attached to a ribboned box under the ornamented treescape. 

it flickers, the light pulsates with every beat in sync with the carols on the stereo.

maybe for once, the stars that were sky’s wish-granters faded and found their way to every living room glazed in grace—

and joy all marked up on each face.

the center of it, said to be for the wonders of every kid’s granted wishlist.

that this yuletide season enkindled for the youth; by keeping the world that they’re starting to see as awful, can be magical for once too. 

but for some, the longer nights of December only mean more hours spent outside the streets—scavenging cents to feel the true Christmas spirit.

if everyone longs to go home for the holidays,

then who keeps the alleys alive and bustling?

in the heart of the nocturnal markets, are the kids exchanging products for pennies, hoping they’d sell it out fast so that home greets them early.

some knock on half-rolled car windows, 

no words, just that plastered face of pity warranted, and when you peek into their eyes, it’s hard to harden your heart, when seeing a soft young boy in their worn out tee is asking for coins to settle the rumbling on an empty intestine.

two little squirts come up in a waiting line for takeout. hesitant, yet approaching; 

two hands with the clang of coins trying to stay on beat, singing a Christmas carol off-key. 

the chorus ended and then they jumbled the lyrics.

I handed in my change, and they dispersed quickly. 

you just know they weren’t doing it out of glee—it’s past ten, and they probably haven’t had anything to eat.

the quiet yet simmering violence of living in a twelve-year old body, 

but a heart torn so many times already

and a mind burdened with a weight heavier than their skin and bones entirely.

Christmastime, you’d see it as kids in filial piety 

sitting outside churches, waving gift wraps, recycled candlewaxes, or round fruits in variety;

sharing the load of a family surviving barely.

yet, there’s a thin line between the tumultuous labor beared by such lean shoulders, and the 

tender hands turned into calloused knuckles—

not because it’s out of obedience and duty, but 

they may have thought it was sealed in fate

that they were brought up to this harsh world a little too early.

full of irony if you see, that not everybody gets the holiday cheers and giddy.

when there’s no home to decor, no table to mantle, no plate to fill, no gift bags to peek, 

if the very essence of Christmas—is out there watching someone else’s family gather and eat.

and all that separates them is a thick wall of glass and the unbridgeable gap of poverty

that keeps them off the street, somewhere they aren’t supposed to be.

in moments they should be living in puerility, a precious phase that has no money worth to pawn, and once gone, one can never again be that young and free.