Pilgrimage to Parkersburg

For our family, in November
All roads led to West Virginia,
To Grandma’s house for Thanksgiving.
The first few to venture downstairs
In the predawn quiet
Would find Grandma in her armchair,
Coffee in hand,
Chesterfield smoldering in the ashtray,
Tosha pacing around her feet.
He would permit a few ear scratches
Before retreating with a regal yowl
That only a Siamese can muster.
After few more cups of coffee
And a few more sets of helping hands awoke,
The final dinner preparations would begin.
As the turkey was washed and stuffed
And the potatoes peeled,
We would share our stories,
The ones retold often enough
To become our family’s mythology:
Aunt Rose’s bean catastrophe,
How Uncle Ronald rescued Muffin as a kitten,
The time Grandma undercooked the holiday ham
And hid behind the refrigerator in shame.
Through the laughter and the chopping and the endless dishes
Our bonds grew stronger
As we added new stories to the family mythology.

 Today Thanksgiving still finds me awake before dawn,
Coffee in hand,
Cigarette smoldering in the ashtray,
And I feel Grandma’s presence at my own table
Much like at hers all those years ago.
Through the chopping and the endless dishes
She whispers her stories to me,
And our bond, though tinged with sadness,
Is still as strong as ever
As I help add new stories to our family’s mythology.