Holiday, Age 25 (Poem)

and so the last thanksgiving, the final visit I made to that home

I spent the day alone in pain from being cut open

through walls drifted rise and fall of conversation

everyone enjoying food and this, the very best day of the year

tables filled to overflow with harvests from land sea and sky

fragrant warmth from the kitchen echoed

by heated crackle from logs in the living room hearth

that evening my father brought me a plate

grateful to be remembered and for the meal I thanked him

but could eat very little, my small appetitie whittled away

the next day I managed a few steps to sit by glowing embers

yet felt older than I could ever be and frail

I examined my hands expecting to see

them wrinkled and bent by the gnarls of time