the
holidays are different for me, sullen joy, it catches up with us. it was
simple, it became complex, visions of mother at the stove. granny has been long
away, I see her frailness, aging, smirking, cracking a joke. there was once a
tree, filled with ornaments, things are now different. I think about nature,
sentimentality, something holy, causes distress, discomfort, unable to pinpoint
its residence—it just festers inside. most of the family, the elders, have
passed—over the creek, into a region, or returned to dirt, covered in ashes. I think
about the clouds, being called upward, the fit science has over that scripture.
I think about humans, such power, so many hermetic gifts. times feel coalesced,
combined, knotted—the sun isn’t as compelling anymore, the moon can be frightening.
kids have the greatest gifts: new perception, innocence in age, newness, before
jade begins to rule. most things appear modest, or different for familiarity,
chestnuts over an open flame—sounds evoke memories, souls seem irritated, routine
seems both aggressive, and agitating. smaller matters mean more, a dear face
makes for solace, much joy comes with seeing others experience joy. stores are
packed with consumers, bikes with training wheels, plus, babies during Covid,
plus, graduates headed into doctoral programs—a cause for a new car, a cause
for a few tears, something happens when kids leave home—something is gained,
something is lost, pangs might appear. I suppose pain, is a sign of maturity, a
place wisdom will sit, waltz, become precious opera; the more arts, the greater
discomfort, we desire the arts—if to feel, born into sensation, favoring
gentility. holidays cause for remembering, the experiencing self takes a trip—mother
holding the bike seat, the child feeling confident, to look back, mother has
let go, she cheers like everything is left to gain.
