we drive through the flat
Carolina plain
turned blonde in winter,
trees scraping the
naked sky,
to home,
carrying
butter-dipped rolls,
soft as clouds
so we can meet
the newest part of family
a puff-cheeked baby
bearing his
great-grandfather's name
(born on his birthday),
and we watch as my brother
drinks in the eyes of
this newborn part
of himself
then we drive down
a ribbon of road
to dogs barking
sharing more rolls and
a minute of conversation
with a soon-to-be-95-year-old
who wears an apron
and kisses our cheeks
and scolds us for not staying
quite long enough,
then home
to barbecue chicken
and my mother's pecan pie,
dripping with
ice cream
as we sit at the table
set with the
scrolled silver
we used to use
every day
when i was a child,
and my father
blesses all
for the kindness of strangers,
for family,
past and absent,
present and
pending — just one more
at the moment yet to come —
then once stuffed,
we quickly clean the
stacks of dishes
piled at the sink,
then we laugh over coffee
about the squirrel who came for
Thanksgiving dinner,
then we remark about Baby Vance
who is currently
number one in
grandfather
"Pop B"'s eyes,
and as the sun sets,
hugs travel across
the room as warm as the pecan pie
and we make 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,
then we head to church,
where
the light and life
of all that is
and has our being
rings forth
in the voices of all who
join in joy, to this
troubled world,
then we make our way through
the night and twinkling lights
to the tastes
of dove and lamb
and yeast and butter
dripping soft as those voices,
talk of 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.
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