Squabbles in the kitchen.

Pan-racket and pie-making competitions—
my uncle always wins,
mostly because he brings six pies,
dominating the table
and the entries.

Cut-out snowflakes taped to the windows.
The Nightmare Before Christmas playing on a small television
just for the kids.

Grandpa’s here,
with the “whale burp”—
his personal name
for lime Jello salad.

I come from a line of creative types,
oddballs and peculiar misfits.
It’s no wonder
my imagination grew wild
and fearless.

The men begin
an unintentional support group,
telling their harshest year’s story,
heads bowed and lifted
in alternation—
grief balanced
with ridiculous adventure.

The senior women ask
who’s here
and who’s died.
A somber moment
for those who couldn’t make the trip,
even the ones
still living.

I sit still as a nail
in grains that flow around me,
observing, listening,
avoiding attention expertly.
The warmth is lovely.
The terror of investigation
into my pre-teen crushes
and boyfriends
is not.

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