I didn’t bake a turkey, nor prepare
stuffing and trimmings, instead, I’ll cook something elusive, nontraditional,
taking some sort of stance. It’s a toehold for me, maybe a lazy one, or maybe a
conscious initiation.
I sense while time
flies, futility, a laxing feeling,
priorities
for family differ from stances, political,
or keying awareness.
The boots are traipsing through
India. Wars point to humans.
I take a magazine, open it, read
from front to back, swat a fly, sip coffee, and drift back to childhood: canned
cranberry, nothing major, ham, turkey, arguments about cooking skills, pumpkin
and apple pie, stuffing, peas and mash potatoes, etc. Eyes buried in traumas—survivors,
with some contending.
One loses emotion, drilled by
emotion, and filled with emotion. The denial solidifies the strength of the
denied.
Transcendence shows promise …
deepness of presence … padlocks opened, chains shattered, doorjambs removed.
One chisels glaciers, by graces,
remaining warm hearted.
What to say more?
Symbolism is powerful. Each soul
will hew the other. Something so simple, so complicated, so hard to achieve—to walk
through pits and ditches, pride and soul, to exist with freezers chasing. The love
of the pain, is the pain to love.
