It was like a series of moments

held together with the clear string

some families might lace

with old popcorn for a tree, or

the fishing line I was afraid

to touch as a child.  My grandfather would say

easy poppet and bait the line for me.  Then,

spitting his chew, pulling my arm

back and then forward

we both said, release 

and cast the line.



Here, it was the same.  This

was a release.  In the background

someone said a prayer, Our Father

who art in heaven. . .  Arlene, 

the Methodist Pastor from the church 

on the corner
 
said that prayer

makes us whole.  

We went there once

on Easter, as a family.  In that stone

building, cherry wood benches,

something was said of Jesus

and even then

I said he was just a man.


 
And the food.  There was so much

food — slices of ham

and roast beef rolled

and stacked in small triangles.  It was all

leftover and still, perfect

little buildings of meat and cheese

and the smell of bread

from the refrigerator.  On Christmas Days

my mother would make her own

platters — cold cuts

by the pound and grandma's sterling platter.

It's the Scottish in me, she said

every time.

 

And in front of each of us

a shot of whiskey.  One cup

at the head of the table,  untouched. 

It sat there for hours

until the family flocked back

to the meat and bread.  I stayed

back, just for a moment

and poured Dougie's whiskey

into my empty cup.

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