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2020-03-30T20:33:57-04:00December 26th, 2013|Relationships|

Tradition

I have grown waxy
from not leaving the house
roaming around
eating nuts

the conversations  drift
like the sea
never quite ending
but scraping back and forth
pulling people in
and then leaving
them stranded

my daughter sleeps on an ottoman
beside the crackers and trout
while my son jumps off a barstool
over and over
singing songs from Oliver
his face peeling with delight

it’s late
our third night here
a nest of family
all of us smelling like scented candles
playing Scattergories
our cheeks sore from laughing

I pick at the gingerbread village
my 20-year-old niece made with my son
roads of ju-jubes and tidy homes
and then my son’s contribution
gingerbread men who lay like drunkards
on their backs
faces smeared

we have to leave early tomorrow
so he won’t have time to eat it
but I doubt he’ll even remember
that one wedge of fun
in a Christmas
as full and predictable
as I pray it always will be.

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