'Tis the Season

My family is very small
and live so far away

from one

another.

We are but four:

One in Sweden, north even of Stockholm which has a syndrome;

one in Sweetwater, West Texas, where neither sweetness nor the comfort of soft rain abides, only wind;

One in the city, one in the woods of Colorado.

We sometimes gather, and avoid old wounds. We are careful of one other, cautious of our relative space.

We harbor great love and hurt and vast deep affection, yet seasons come and go when we do not break bread or take quilts down from the closets, nor do we polish the silver in anticipation.

We are few, and far away.