Dwain Northey (Gen X)

’Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house,

Not a creature was stirring—not even the mouse.

The tree lights flickered, cheap LEDs dim,

Like promises made and then gutted on a whim.

Dad sat alone by the glow of a screen,

Blue light despair in the space in between

Hope and exhaustion, caffeine and dread,

Scrolling past headlines he wished he’d misread.

The stockings hung limp, no real sense of cheer,

Inflation-adjusted dreams cancelled this year.

The furnace hummed like a tired old friend,

Much like the faith that things might mend.

He stared at the bills—medical, rent,

Student loans haunting the youth that were spent.

He whispered, “Maybe ’26… maybe then,”

As if hope itself were a stubborn old pen.

When bing! went the alert, loud, shrill, and absurd,

Another notification, another dumb word.

The anchor looked grave, the chyron screamed bright:

“Donald Says Greenland Is Key to Our Might.”

“Strategically important,” the headline declared,

As if conquest were casual, as if anyone cared.

“Why stop at maps?” Dad muttered with spite,

“When fantasy wars keep him busy at night.”

Another line scrolled—his jaw clenched tight:

Ships bombed “somewhere,” Venezuela in sight.

Details were foggy, the justifications thin,

Freedom™, apparently, needed more tin.

Dad leaned back slowly, rubbed eyes grown sore,

From watching the world slide closer to war.

He glanced down the hall at a bedroom once small,

Now housing a twenty-year-old, adulthood and all.

A kid who grew up on lockdowns and lies,

On drills, on debt, on normalized cries.

Too old for toys, too young for a flag,

Yet just the right age for a body bag.

Dad thought of the letters, the drafts, the call,

The “service” speeches that mean nothing at all.

He pictured a future traded for pride,

For an ego that needed the world to comply.

Outside, a drone buzzed—not reindeer, no sleigh,

Just surveillance humming softly away.

No magic, no miracles, no angels in flight,

Just algorithms watching us sleep through the night.

So Dad shut the laptop, the glow finally gone,

The room left with shadows and the quiet of dawn.

He whispered a prayer—not patriotic, not loud,

Just human, exhausted, and quietly proud.

“Please let them live. Please let them stay home.

Please let this madness not be what they’re shown.

And if hope still exists when this chapter is through,

Let it arrive late—but let it be true.”

’Twas the night before Christmas in a world gone askew,

Where peace felt outdated and truth overdue.

And somewhere beneath all the fear and the fright,

A father still wished for a silent good night.