Traditions
It wasn’t a tradition, really. But somehow that Thanksgiving stands apart from all the others in my mind as being…what Thanksgiving is all about.
I was 11 years old. The dynamics of my dysfunctional family had shifted, for better or for worse. Richard, a stepfather of sorts, had “temporarily” moved to Fairbanks “for work.” It was the first time that I could remember feeling things like security, safety, relief, even happiness.
For at least that November, it was just me, my brothers, and my mom. We bought tickets to The Great Alaska Shootout which is a college basketball tournament that comes every Thanksgiving in Anchorage. So for Thanksgiving weekend we headed to the big city. We even rented a car; stayed at a hotel. We ate at a buffet called the Kings Table. On Black Friday we went into big stores like Sports Authority and JCPenny. We bought cassettes of our favorite bands (CD’s were still pretty new and expensive). We all had the flu but I don’t remember that. I just remember feeling close with my brothers and my mom. I just remember feeling the absence of tension and fear.
I remember feeling peace. And clarity. That feeling when you know, or at least believe, that things are okay. Everything will be okay.
I am grateful for that memory. That was my last Thanksgiving with Mike, my brother, who died the next year. I am eternally grateful for that memory.
“We are all pencils in the hand of God.” “We, the unwilling, led by the unknowing, are doing the impossible for the ungrateful. We have done so much, for so long, with so little, we are now qualified to do anything with nothing.” Mother Teresa
those moments
i love those moments in life where you look up at the infinite sky and smile at our infinte God and you can almost hear Him say,
See! I told you I had a plan!
[ode to ithaca]
a star in a dream
hung to the east,
brushed onto the night of an oil-painted sky;
over a fateful isle,
by a faithful eye,
i believed you’d fulfill this for me.
the direction i could not seem to find;
the projection i could not seem to hide,
the alignment i had fallen off;
the truth that i had lied of;
the sense of home
the journey there-
east of dreams of truth and being;
home, if believing is seeing.
you were everything i could not be/ honestly.
and as the red-tipped hands of dawn
rose over this bittersweet life,
i saw the light reflecting off the water and i knew it would be made right.
i saw a truth worth fighting for;
i saw truth worth life;
i saw direction,
i found alignment;
a sense of home;
the journey there-
you were so close i could touch you/i believe you did.~
[house moves]
aches to know
were so afraid of change
within ourselves; numb in case we feel
emotions we can’t deal
with rushing through the tunnels of our hearts.
no way to slow it down; the train it wrecks
over every akward thought or failed attempt.
the house shifts, we jump in our chairs and fall apart from fear.
just the thought of something there,
the risk of someplace where
we were happy enough to stay
and it wasn’t a lie;
we were safe enough to know
we could drop our bags, not go
everytime the thoughts got wierd:
something external reflecting off the scratched surfaces of our hearts,
narrowed tunnels, dark alleys, trainwrecks, dejavu,
the house moves.~
[127th Drive]
our hope is not here.
in my heart, i watch the
colors fade.
i wash your hard day at work,
i mend your button
and watch your color fade.
your cheek will turn,
not fade; it cooks,
burns, it bleeds
and soon too hot to touch.
i mend your buttons
and wash your troubled day.
i stir pots for five
or six, then seven til close
to morning, ready for your
comfort, i prepare my best
peace with patience and
prepare for the fire which
will come cause you are home now.
your cheek swells as you
trance through the walls,
around the edges, lucid your
pace, the arms begin their
swing your skin anxious
it builds upon its layer of
cooking coals, a blaze, you
raise a fearful fist oh,
but not so quick -
just enough to empty any
hope i had for the day
i prepared with peace.
you press your strength
against my weak
limbed kindness;
my deep rooted patience
and brand me with your long hard day.
my one day off
from my days i wash the old people;
but i wash you.
i wash your plate
your bowl, your socks, your boots,
your hate, your potatoes
and your meat.
i wash as i watch my color fade.
i sew and cook,
clean and hook
on to any hope i can muster
for the coming day.~
[as if]
to say you didn’t mean it -
the younger hopeful side.
from behind the shadow,
the light
wavers like wind and paper.
just another one,
another one.~
[slightly acidic]
strange astringent,
the blink of an eye; water bleeds; and the light,
dry as a bone,
ragged and wrung,
appears clean, serene, and alive.~
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