Outside, icicles cling to a rusty
Gutter, hanging on for life,
For growth. Inside, it's warm;
Grandma spoons instant coffee
Into a few chipped cups and saucers.
The kitchen table is sprawling,
Able to accomodate an army
of sons, daughters, and grandchildren.
The red checkered tablecloth
Is spotted with stains--
A battlefield map of forgotten meals.
Grandpa died years ago, an old veteran,
Leaving behind a legacy of memories;
My aunts and uncles tell stories
While squirming in squeaky chairs.
A set of plastic chandeliers dangle
Placidly over the table, camouflaging
Four dusty light bulbs. I stare
At them in wonder, transfixed
By the dim glow and the chatter,
Until the last drop of coffee
Disappears, until we head back out
Into the cold, where I hang on
Desperately to Dad's coat sleeve
To keep from slipping on the ice.
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