11 December 2021
Tradition
And so I wander the steadying hand of tradition.
An gray homestead, weary wallpaper and waxed wooden floors, frozen pipes.
Green and yellow enameled table bowled with oatmeal and brown sugar.
Window covered in leafy spirals of frost dripping, heat of wood stove crackle.
A bed warmed overnight by feathered covers and heated stone.
A metal pan in the sink holding my father’s soap, brush, and brass razor, awaiting a hot kettle.
Snow in my rubber boots, waxed paper sock lined, crunching as we struggle to class.
Charcoal ash marking paths through snowbanks, ice puddles on the road, horse track.
Milk standing at attention, saluting the rising sun of winter’s doorstep.
Hockey sticks and skates resting in the back porch, worn and ready.
Tomato soup with a pat of yellow butter, salted ******* crumbles.
Burnt bread crust trying to hold onto marmalade from the ice box.
Tea leaves in my cup predicting the upcoming fortune of the day.
A naughty calendar pinned to the garage wall, Dad over oily steamed mechanics.
Call of my best friend to dice, a color squared cardboard game, and an afternoon of challenge.
Hands of the girl next door brushing her unkempt, unruly hair in her front window.
Galvanized tub of warm water for the weekly Saturday bath.
A fir tree with the promise of sweets and a gift, sparkling at midnight, filling home with pine scent, holding lit candles.
Toy filled sock on the bed, half a cookie, and an empty milk glass on the bedside stool, Christmas morning.
The first phone call from family that morning, bacon and eggs, extra time lying in bed.
Butter tarts, turkey in the oven.
Tradition, tradition, where are am I now?