for this quick prayer i will wear your uncle's coat, your grandpa's rubber boots- easy to slip on, here at the back door. you toddle up with a finger pointed at your two year old belly- "me?"
your little paw offers up a cookie crumb- dessert before turkey- a treat to tide you over. dinner is coming late today. and so a piece of shortbread (we made those yesterday) makes it onto the plate i am holding. a plate for those who are not here with us, but who have made us who we are.
"i'm going outside, did you want to come?"
"yes." and with that you are gone andback again, your six inch sorrels rushed into the kitchen, awaiting your two year old feet.
"coat?" and you're pointing to the hooks.
"i'll carry you, my love. up!" held close inside the lining of this soft wool coat, held close against my heart. warm with all this new year's feast we wander through the yard.
your grandpa's big unbending boots slow my slippy step, make us hold each other stronger. warmly.
"it's slippy on this path. so warm today and now all frozen back over."
"yeah." you point up to the sky. clear night.
"this plate is for our grandmas and our grandpas. our ancestors. ancestors means our family who don't live here with us now."
"yeah!" you nod one time and we giggle in the snow.
the tree stands in the garden. a bird house sits inside, a smaller version of the house we live in. and you a smaller version of who you'll be.
"this food is for a thank-you. and an open door into our lives for all of our blood. everyone we love, even those we never met." your shining eyes tell me i am speaking for myself. you know, little man. you simply do. "will you say thank-you with me, owen?"
"chenks"
"good. can you say gookschem?"
"gookschem" is perfect in your mouth. and with shining eyes on both of us, i take you back inside.
No comments:
Post a Comment