Coats on the Bed on Christmas Eve

The coats were heaped upon the bed As high as drifted snow, A plaid, a tweed, a parka red, And scarves tucked in below.

Dad carried chairs in from the truck, Their seats as cold as frost, And found a spot for each, by luck, Though half the floor was lost.

The windows fogged with kitchen steam, And small hands wrote their names; The baby slept, a milky dream, Through carols, pans and games.

When Aunt Lorraine looked round and said, “We couldn’t fit a mouse!” The laughter rolled from bed to bed And rattled all the house.

But Gran set down her coffee cup And spoke as soft as prayer: “Once Bethlehem was all filled up And had no room to spare.

“So Mary laid her Little One Where breathing cattle fed; The Maker of the moon and sun Had hay to be His bed.

“Now we won’t be that crowded inn,” She said, and slid her seat. “There’s always room to squeeze one in, And always bread to eat.”

Just then a knock, and through the snow Came Ellis from next door, Alone this year, his steps gone slow, With pie, and nothing more.

We found a stool, a bit of space, A plate, a fork, a cup, And when we bowed our heads for grace, His was the last one up.

Long after pie, I climbed the stair And found, upon the bed, A worn gray coat was resting there Among the plaid and red.