at Christmas
we drive through the flat
Carolina plain
turned blonde in winter,
trees scraping the
naked sky,
to home,
so we can puff our cheeks with
butter-dipped rolls,
soft as clouds
and pickled green beans and
my mother's cake, dripping with
creamy caramel,
sitting at the table
set with my mother's
scrolled silver
that we used to use
every day
when i was a child,
and my father
carefully annunciates
each word
of the blessing
for the first time
all year,
thanking God
for gifts of grace
known, but mostly not
and for family,
past and absent,
present and
even pending,
then once stuffed,
we fuss about who will
clean the
stacks of dishes
piled at the sink,
then we laugh over coffee
at how i never stayed at camp,
then we place bets on who is
number one in
grandmother
"B"'s eyes,
and as the sun sets,
hugs travel across
the room as fast as gossip
as we make our way
to leave,
and once outside
our breath
fills the
crisp night
with clouds as soft
as those rolls,
then we drive back through
the darkened plain
and over the river
and through the woods
to our other
home,
the tastes of
yeast and butter
and caramel
and
family
lingering
on our tongues.
writemuch.blogspot is the original work of author susan byrum rountree. all written work and photography is copyright protected and can only be used with written permission of the author.
Merry Christmas Susan......your posting reminds me much of all the best parts of Christmas past at the Whitehead homeplace and even the good parts of Christmas past at the Pickette homeplace on Cherry Street.
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