Pummelos, with their citric smell,
Make me live in memories past
When I was still a little child
With no hopes innocence would last,

Nor a hope Christmas would bring
The coveted toys of all the rest.
A pummelo was my present then,
And I considered myself blest.

My family gathered around me and
The well-adorned, emblazoned tree,
Whose twinkling lights are like the souls
Of those passing in and out of humanity.

I was hardened by poverty, death,
Friendlessness, and low self-esteem,
So any gifts beyond the pummelo
Would be a suspicious dream.

The surreal chanced as, awkwardly,
I accepted some stranger’s gift
Out of the box on the doorstep
Left in hopes our spirits to lift.

The whatnots animated us,
According to our childish nature,
But proved a bit unsettling to
My pride strong and mature.

How dare they think us poor?
They needn’t think; it was the truth.
How is it I ruined their efforts
With feelings wild and uncouth?

How is it the cherished present
Was one I’d resigned myself to,
While such trinkets as I’d wanted
Became meaningless anew?

I sat and slowly ate my pummelo,
And its tartness has stayed with me
And caused me to resent gifts given
For sympathy of my poverty.

The years have died like many men,
But, unlike men, will not come back,
But remind me when I had naught
There was nothing that I did lack.