of the day
with the first game on
and the house
filling with
relatives
and strangers
when my mother would
set out a tray
of olives.
black and green.
some cut cheese and crackers.
a few grapes
tossed in and
celery stalks
filled with cream cheese,
all lined in rows
like soldiers
on her best holiday dish.
something to nibble on,
she'd say, sweat rolling
off her brow, while a turkey
the size of a small child
roasted in the oven
beside a pan of lasagna.
a spiral ham waiting
its turn to be next.
1 comment:
This feels a bit surreal, too. Not that that is a bad thing, I like the specifics within. The analogy of the turkey like a small child takes me there, I guess. To the land of the surreal.
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