As a child I loved Christmas, more than most kids alive.
No gift a surprise, I knew ‘fore they arrived.
On top of Mom’s closet, in bags before bows,
in cupboards and drawers, in boxes under hose.
Up the stairs I would go, quiet as a mouse,
sleuthing the halls, I found ‘em ‘bout the house.
To date nights and parties my parents would go,
home alone I rummaged, brother in tow.
Sweaters I saw and snow skis for me,
make-up and jewelry filled me with glee.
T-shirts and tools, these aren’t for me,
sleuthing wasted on Dads cup of tea?
Trick me they tried after detecting my knack,
to find unwrapped presents at the drop of a hat.
They tried this new trick on one fortnight,
wrapping it all somewhere off site.
At night I would sneak when all were asleep,
un-wrapping so neatly and back so discreet.
You seem tired today, my mother would say,
not very surprised by your gifts today?
The secret I ‘ve kept and can now say,
is that a sleuths Christmas is longer than a day.
It starts at Thanksgiving when sales are underway,
and ends Christmas morning when it’s time to hit the hay.