He’s
young, salivating for cornbread, sipping fruit juice. Life is warm, a day for
seasons,
mashing potatoes. The winds are harsh, absent of global warming, picking
through
broccoli and rice. Stuffing is stuffed with onions, celery, and a host of
meats
and ingredients. “Fix the cranberry salad; check the turkey; and start the
green
beans.” He’s in awe, to witness three generations, feuding over recipes.
Caroling
flickers gently, tearing a marshmallow, and grounding gram-crackers.
“Get
some ice;” where gin needs a friend, if not three or four. Voices change,
filled
with
love, to layer macaroni. He laughed unknowingly, to stir a chuckle, where a
thought
slipped out. “Pass the cornflakes, the pecans, and cinnamon.” The family
filled
with mirth, quoting Scriptures, and arguing points. He watched in awe,
appointed
to pies, and a mixture of honey-dos. Aromas waft for blocks, where dogs
barked,
and squirrels came nigh. He sliced mushrooms, cried over onions, and
prepared
to stuff peppers. To hear laughter, where days were stripped, enflamed
with
joy; and new ambrosia, a different task, nearly full. There were Creole dishes,
wild
rice, and the riches gravy. “Watch the cat; and feed the parrot, else he’ll
rage.”
Less for Brussels, and more for corn, a table of passions. He led in prayer,
to
speak the soul, to praise for love. Three generations, reaching and laughing,
filled
with
fey and spirits. The turkey was succulent, the ham for perfect, and pies for
rich.
He thought of love, passing pears, and snuck a sip.
