Christmas Day

Dad has gone blind,
every mouthful of food a surprise
as his fork moves uncertainly
over the holiday meal.
He stands unsteadily, waiting
for blood to circulate back to his feet
before shambling back to the living room.
He lingers in front of the old gas heater,
wavers like the blue jets flickering in the grate,
says he’s never warm.

Mom is a demented tour guide,
pointing out photos I’ve seen hundreds
of times in my grandmother’s house,
a shrine to Uncle Terry, dead ten years,
who makes the electric lights shimmer
whenever we mention his name.
We exchange unwanted gifts and cash,
find solace in this routine, make excuses
for why it isn’t more – the dwindling
social security checks or doctor bills.

Small talk will turn to accusations,
to nitpicking, to shortcomings.
Grandmother will retreat to the kitchen,
put on yellow gloves, plunge into hot dish water
until the air returns to normal, until overfull bellies
sedate us into submission, the need for naps,
so she can usher us out, mission accomplished,
with a forced, don’t be a stranger.

Grandmother will say, it doesn’t feel like Saturday,
because a holiday never feels like any day,
and we always agree, because there’s no explanation
for hours that lose their senses, as if Christmas Day
is a hidden room with no clocks and windows,
where time flattens out into dead air,
and we are suspended here, holding our breath,
waiting for the world to spin again on its axis.