I was a little girl
on my way to my grammy's for Christmas.
I was half asleep;
all cuddled up with my throw blanket
while "Do You Hear What I Hear" played
on the car radio.
And even though it's a shattered, tainted thing now,
it's still warm.
And as I turn the dead memory over in my hands,
I rest my head against the flat cold of the car window,
and let the melancholy song of gently falling raindrops
accompany me to my destination.