He pressed his tiny cherub face
Against his mother’s table lace.
On tippy toe so he could see
Then clapped his hands in childish glee.

For there upon the table spread
Were golden loaves of homemade bread,
And mounds of mashed potatoes high
And mama’s homemade apple pie.

And in the center, big and fat
A golden roasted turkey sat;
Surrounded by the other things
That Christmas dinner always brings.

Then slowly trudging down the hall
He watched the big clock on the wall
‘Cause mama said that they would sup
When both the hands were pointing up.

At last he hears the big clock chime
And mama’s call, “It’s dinnertime!”
And hurriedly he finds his place
And waits till dad says table grace.

And all the world is perfect then
And he’ll think back time and again
And wish to God that he were able
To sit at mama’s Christmas table.

William Raymond Waterman, Sr.
From my book
“Ringing of the Bells”

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