Childhood 1: Visiting the Land of Make Believe

This is not a true story but 
the expression of a wish 
of a poor Bronx girl
on Christmas Day.  

There were Christmas gifts 
but they flew out the window
in a drunken father’s rage.

There was a menagerie set
with a Jesus in a manger,
cows, sheep, pig, donkeys,
two collies, a pony and a camel,
but all was shattered
to pieces, now  existing 
as porcelain dust among 
the faded gold carpet,
the beer cans 
the dripping rum bottles,
the vomit on the wrapping 
paper stamped with jolly Santas.

But this is not his story
and will never be.

This is not even the story of her,
the 6 year old girl huddled 
in a dark room with 
a fading lamp and
peeling rose wallpaper,
and the dying mother 
in the hospital.

But, she will be spending 
this Christmas night 
in the land of make believe
with her kindly grandfather 
Uncle Alm who lives in Dörfli,
a small Swiss village 
nestled in the Alps.

Heidi is not her name,
but in this place,
it is what she is called.

There are plenty of animals with
not enough legs between them.

You see, this is an animal farm 
for hurt and abandoned 
creatures large and small.

There are a herd of  three legged 
Skudde sheep  who no longer fear 
the sound of the wolf wind
snarling through the mountains.
Two one-eyed Continental Bulldogs
freed from  a hot poker 
and the loss in the pit.  An Alpine
goat who faints no more at 
the sight of a billy club pointed at her. 

Even a few Alley cats rescued
from the dark, cutting  streets
who now curiously explore 
the open green all around them,
and who, when it fancy’s them,
crawl up the legs and ride bareback
the five Freidberger horses spared 
from the glue factory when they no 
longer could service the Swiss Army.  

But this is not the story of a zoo, 
but that of a girl harnessing 
the woe around her to
to  her gentle imagination.  

This is not even a story.  
A story has conflict and 
thus some sorrow and loss. 
It is just a series of images
that comforts a terrified girl
on a long winter’s night.

It has enough animals 
to be a fable but  
a fable has a moral 
and there are no 
lessons to learn here.
And thou there are humans,
there is no folly and sin,
at least not enough
to make a parable.  

It’s not a dream.
She is not asleep.
It’s barely an idea
where rainbow
unicorns occasionally 
wander through.  

She laughs. 
She knows that silly. 
She knows unicorns
are not real but 
they make her 
happy and so she 
leaves them in.  
She likes keeping 
things that 
make her happy.  

And so she keeps the snow, 
even though it is cold, 
because it doesn’t 
hurt her fingers when
her mittens are on.  
And it tastes like laughter.

And she also keeps that hovel 
of logs with the snow plied 
around and in neat soft layers 
on the silvered metal roof. 

Grandfather with his 
long white beard is there tending 
the fire.  The smell of hot
chocolate greets her  from the 
iron stove. “Oh, so yummy to 
fill her tummy,” she thinks.  

The only animals not abandoned
or hurt, a paddling of Blue ducklings, 
had followed her home from the edges
of the frozen lake, knowing  the imprint 
of a pink petticoat to snuggle on, 
awaits them near the yellow warmth. 
Nearby, there will be  a pan 
of warm goat milk to drink from,
and to fill their gullets, day-old  
Zopf bread crumbs fed to them
from her tiny gentle hands.   

There is no television 
just two pictures of 
the Virgin Mary and Jesus
hanging from nearby 
wood paneled walls.  

And even though 
today is Christmas
there is no tree 
or even presents.

Outside, she knows 
there are enough  
Stone Pines with   
cone ornamentation,
enough unbroken birdsong
hopping in the evergreen  
branches for a thousand 
Christmases to come.
  
Inside, she also knows that 
The pines have gifted 
their souls to be
the everlasting 
bench she sat on,
the table she ate from,
the headrest, footboard
and the bed frame 
she slept on,
the very walls 
all around her,
the door that 
opened easily 
to the world outside
just as it effortlessly 
swung open to reveal 
the warmth inside.

“And oh, how they 
joyously shared themselves
with the wild grass, 
the larches, the 
wild blueberries,
all around,” she thought.

“In the spring, after Easter,
after the lake had thawed,
maybe Grandfather 
would drag out that old 
pine canoe from the shed
and row me to the other side.”  
 
“Why give presents 
when the whole world
is such a joyous gift,”
was her final thought
as she drifted off to sleep
sixty years later, this 
imaginary world so 
joyously comforting her.