Tidings of comfort and joy. And Bob.

A poem about a digital Advent calendar, and other stuff too

Screenshot from the Sussex Village Digital Advent Calendar 2022-2024, at jacquielawson.com. (Bob not shown.)

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I first brought Bob to Substack around this time last year. My readership here has grown some since then, plus it feels like a good time to speak up again in praise of Advent calendars, digital and otherwise; in praise of feeling what you feel whenever you feel it; in praise of the ways a loving community can surround and include the solitary. Deck the halls with boughs of holly, if that’s your jam … or, you know, just ask Bob in for a quiet cup of tea.

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ADVENT CALENDAR, WITH BOB                                                 2023


It spreads its animated cheer across my desktop screen,
an English village in winter, lovingly drawn and colored,
unfolding joy on joy: the market street, the dazzled tree
that twinkles in the square before the church, the green encircled
by lit and cosy cottages, the frozen river spanned
by its stone footbridge, and in the distance groves of trees
on gentle hills, a winter sky whose brightness fades
and glows with the computer’s clock; numbers on doors
and shop windows and chimneys, one for each day
until The Day, each opening on some small gift or game
or puzzle.
                  And through all these delights the villagers
pace to and fro in digital decorum, bundled bright
in winter gear, familiar over time: the plumpish matron
with a grandchild at each hand, the red-haired man
pushing a pram while his wife steers their toddler,
the newlyweds, the wheelchaired woman out with friends,
two gray-haired sisters with shopping bags and spaniel – 
all ages, colors, sizes, in twos and fours and more,
and now and then a solo stroller, always with a dog,
a bag, a bright armful of gifts. 
                                                     Except for one.
One solitary figure walks with empty hands thrust deep
into the pockets of his plain dark jacket, head bent
beneath a sober cap, never joining the festive bustle
on the market street, only pacing back and forth
past cottages and across the green, off one edge
of the screen and, later, back again, never a glance
at the skaters below the footbridge or at the children
busy with their snowman – head bent, always,
eyes on the ground.
                                    And for reasons I do not name,
this figure is for me the calendar’s heart, its quiet center.
I call him Bob, look for him first each time that my computer
opens this joyful scene; it tugs my heart, his lonely form
against the twinkle-lit trees and windows. Now and again
a random tic of animation has him trudge beside
the retired couple with matching hats and a collie
or the Black family whose twins bounce tiptoe down the path,
and I imagine someone saying kindly, “Cold today, Bob,
isn’t it? Come in, then, and we’ll have the kettle on.”
They walk together off the monitor, and I picture the cottage,
cosy as those onscreen, where they unlock the door
and urge Bob in for a nice cup of tea, some biscuits,
perhaps a bit of cake, 
                                      and perhaps when he has thawed
a bit, warmed through by kindness and by central heating,
he may speak just a word or two, words that his neighbors
will understand: about the job that was his pride
for years till he was made redundant, about his wife
who passed away last winter after bearing too much pain
for much too long. His neighbors will nod and murmur,
refill his teacup, make room in their cosy cottage
for his sadness, welcome his unadorned, unsmiling self
among the dreams and scents and ornaments
that brighten their December. Here in the midst
of all the season’s joys and comforts there is Bob,
and the season is Bob’s, as it is his neighbors’. 
                                                                                Not
that he stays with them long; minutes after he follows
these friendly folk off-screen, look, back he comes alone,
hands in his pockets, step by step amid the falling
animated snow, over the footbridge and off the edge
of the screen once more. And back again, in time,
because this is his village, he belongs here, belongs
to Christmas and Christmas belongs to him, no matter
that he has nothing this year to carry in his hands.

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