November
Last time I stuffed a turkey
you were sucking a burnt pinky
confiding secrets about Uncle Carl
and reminding me
of the importance
of a well-bleached sink.
If
instead of sleeping
in a Red River cemetery
you were here
adding chicken broth
and just a pinch more sage
would you forgive me
this broken home
our broken vows
my broken-
ness?
Or
would you square your shoulders
and set to scrubbing corners
proving that even the darkest stains
will bow to a little
elbow grease?
December
There’s an ornament
on our noble fir
that’s older than me
or so I tell the kids.
I’ve no idea how it survived
across three generations
so prone to making messes.
I know these pine needles
will be wedged til Easter
beneath baseboards
but
plastic hasn’t the honesty
to resurrect silent nights
spent stringing cranberries
and popcorn.
Do you recall
how every so often
the needle would prick my finger?
You’d shrug
and remind me that crimson
is a Christmas color.
I understand now
why you didn’t say it
with a smile.
© 2019 Tabitha Isbell