I felt it, yesterday, passing the parking lot at Target. That gnawing dread
of the holiday storm, a flurry of shoppers jockeying in the aisles,
the cataclysm of the checkout followed by late-night wrapping followed
by a theater of unwrapping and the morning dross of paper piles.
Of course, complaint like this is a luxury, like a transcontinental trip
on a cramped airliner, grimacing at how close your knees are to the back
of the seat in front of them while you gather distance at a mystifying clip.
But then, arrival, and you peel yourself from the plane and walk
the long hallway into the arms of someone you love, forgetting the ride
entirely. And you put the luggage down and hold your hands out wide.