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It was time for me to strategize a new way
to talk to the dead, so I went to the fair for
the ghosts of Christmas. There among the new
pagans I might celebrate a reunion with my dearly
departed. Dressed in their black garb, the attendees
milled around the crafters who had mounted and
framed exotic butterflies and spiders. Skulls of
cattle hung on display racks with their horns
painted black. Disfigured dolls shared a space
with various stuffed rodents. Teas that jokingly
promised a forever sleep were pressed into their
containers. Coffin pinky rings and lockets with
photos of gaunt figures from another century stood
ready to adorn. Candles in the shape of cat skeletons
were ready to glow. All manner of bones,
bugs, and taxidermy had been beckoned.
The haunt was on, but there was really only one star
of the show. The children clamored to have their
picture taken with him and whined when they could not.
Krampus posed with families and friends. The little
basket on his back carried the head of a newborn
and the mock threat of discipline for the ill-behaved
child. He cracked the rute and pretended to threaten
an old world threat, but it was more like something
out of Universal Studios. A B grade horror flick had
made him a cult hit. A little girl wanted the plush toy
version but not one with a bell or she might get it
confused with her pug. When the merch kicks in,
you know you’re on to something big. It’s a wonder
to see what a soul can be whipped up to believe,
to cherish. Good God, how am I going to explain this
to mom and dad who have been gone for so long now
I can barely hear their voices through the haze.
I’ll tell them Christmas is coming,
and it’s welcoming me to the grave.