Every December I carefully address cards to my extended geography,
scribe canned sentiments trying to recall faces,
discern whether familial patronymics are appropriate and realize
I can't remember names, new children,
wonder if I'll ever meet them or if I care to,
if this ritual still invokes the belonging I require
knowing persons missed most are already gone,
if I'll ever understand a winter draped in fresh solitude,
if I will be remembered for nothing
more than a clever, areligious greeting,
a careless postcard in a distant box that whispers
happy holidays, I'm sorry for your loss.
No Comments