24/12/2025
My New Christmas Poem
I Wrote🎄
Home Is a Love That Knows the Way
Love packed lightly this year.
Just a heartbeat,
a thousand memories folded small,
and the ache of almost there.
It boarded trains made of frost and headlights,
slipped through airports humming with strangers,
rode the long roads where Christmas lights
blinked like prayers nailed to the dark.
Love traveled with tired hands
and eyes that had learned how to miss.
It leaned its head against cold windows
and dreamed—not of snow,
but of warmth.
Of kitchens where time slowed.
Of laughter caught in curtains.
Of voices saying your name
like it was shelter.
Every mile carried a whisper:
Go on. You’re closer now.
Love remembers home
before the body does.
It knows the way without maps,
without signs.
It follows the invisible pull
of where it was once held
without having to explain itself.
Home is not walls.
Home is not addresses.
Home is the place
where your breath finally unclenches.
At Christmas, love grows brave.
It crosses years that hurt.
It steps over words never said.
It walks through grief
still wearing hope like a thin coat,
frayed but stubborn.
It remembers those who are missing—
chairs empty but loud with presence,
names spoken softly
so they won’t break the room.
Love carries them too.
Always has.
Outside, the world rushes—
sales and songs and noise—
but love moves slower,
deliberate, reverent.
It pauses for carols drifting from somewhere unseen.
It stands beneath streetlights
falling snow-like memories
and lets tears come
without shame.
Because love knows
that longing is proof
of having belonged.
Home appears first in dreams.
A door opening.
A light left on.
A familiar knock answered without surprise.
In dreams, love is already there—
wrapped in old blankets,
hands around warm mugs,
knees touching,
silences that don’t need filling.
Dream-home smells like baking and safety.
It sounds like you made it.
It feels like being allowed to rest.
And when love finally arrives—
when keys turn,
or arms close,
or hearts meet across distance—
something holy happens.
Time loosens its grip.
The year exhales.
The weight carried quietly for months
is set down
without ceremony.
No applause.
Just relief.
Christmas is not the day.
It is the moment love stops traveling
and remembers
it was never lost—
only on its way back.
Home is where love is expected.
Home is where it is forgiven for being tired.
Home is where it is still chosen
after storms, after silence, after miles.
And if you are reading this
still on the road,
still counting days,
still missing someone so deeply it hurts—
know this:
Love is already walking toward you.
It never forgets the way.
It never arrives empty-handed.
It brings hope.
It brings memory.
It brings the quiet miracle of return.
This is Christmas.
Not perfection—
but love, traveling home.
Written by
© Julie T.Whelan
