THROUGH THE WIN­DOW ON A CHRIST­MAS EVE

Our Canada - - Coming To Canada - Karen Me­graw

We are nine, plus bet­ter get there early oth­er­wise may have to park out­side the cosy block we’ve known for fifty years the blind is drawn to the top of the glow­ing can­dles on the sill my papa sits in his chair I see his pro­file through the win­dow I move to­ward the warmth of fam­ily glow set ra­di­ant with the colours so care­fully placed with my mother’s love I walk the drive inch­ing past the car park packed with the an­tic­i­pa­tion of the shar­ing to come up the three slip­pery steps to­ward the wreath in the win­dow the fa­mil­iar sound of the dual doors balanc­ing act with gifts in tow step­ping into the back­door square and into the kitchen’s glow is there room for my boots an­tic­i­pat­ing who will be feed­ing on the buf­fet Christ­mas feast sil­ver pot sits on the stove filled with tra­di­tion the back bed­room a cosy mound of coats filled with scent and style my kin­dred love the only love I find cer­tain the sym­phony of voices all speak­ing at once the love al­lows us to know each other’s words be­fore they’re spo­ken my mother float­ing, an­tic­i­pat­ing, track­ing so many gifts to give my papa in his chair, al­ways there with sparkles not seen the day be­fore, Glen­fid­dich glow the laugh­ter bal­loons the wine is swal­lowed out pours the love each mo­ment crest­ing on a wave of joy the gifts un­folded the se­cret grat­i­tude the sounds are glee­ful - deafening I thank the sea­son for this an il­lu­sion of mind - I doubt that only the di­vine can gather us to this rap­ture

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