Going Home For Christmas

He little knew the sorrow that was in his vacant chair;
He never guessed they'd miss him or he'd surely have been there;
He couldn't see his mother or the lump that filled her throat,
Or the tears that started falling as she read his hasty note;
And, he couldn't see his father, sitting sorrowful and dumb,
Or he never would have written, that he thought he couldn't come.
He couldn't see the fading of the cheeks that once were pink,
And the silver in the tresses; and he didn't stop to think
How the years are passing swiftly, and next Christmas it might be
There would be no-home to visit and no mother dear to see;
He didn't think about it-I'll not say he didn't care
He was heedless and forgetful or he'd surely have been there.
Are you going home for Christmas?
Have you written you'll be there?
Going home to kiss the mother and to show her that you care?
Going home to greet the father in a way to make him glad?
If you're not I hope there'll never come a time you'll wish you had.
Just sit down and write a letter-it will make their heart strings hum
With a tune of perfect gladness-if you'll tell them that you'll come.

-Edgar A. Guest