Family and turkey

To leave is a sad sickening feeling 

The feeling you get at an airport or when someone put just the right flair to a eulogy and people are both laughing and crying 

It is s good sick sad feeling leaving home

Every

Single

Time.

Mom bags food for us to take home, each of us with our serving of mashed potatoes and dark and white meat

Sweet potatoes between the beans and the stuffing like the middle seat of a car 

Uncomfortable and orange 

Dad leans far over the sink

This is one of the first years I've seen him so engaged in the process 

Scrubbing the China and stacking it like little men that Mom cares for each holiday

Heaven forbid it be dishwashed 

Dad is a warrior today, 

The turkey knife buzzing like a tattoo gun or hair trimmers rattling behind an ear

The hustling

Jazz music plays and he names every song during our movie as if we are quizzing him

But we aren't 

Joe and K stretch far across the couches and between pillows their hands intertwined or comfortable across 

Sleeping next to each other 

This is good. I see that this is good despite any heated normal arguments or love songs waiting to be written or jobs as bartenders 

You are still walking forward and I am happy to watch. 

My insides hurt for the broken parts of this little body, this family 

The alcohol breath and the socks of a brother who now has been asked to care for himself

It is time 

The socks that haven't been cleaned in a month 

& then the stiff brother who is soft and strong like a lion 

Relearning to laugh 

With red eyes because he has meant it when he had been told to cry out

He sits through the entire movie though

Even enjoys it

And I'm proud of his lingering

This normality that was uncommon a year ago 

We are talking now about dating instead of eating and I find that to be a huge improvement 

I'm sick sometimes because my love for them is so large 

Max says I'm always stitching or trying for years

And he is right 

I was never going to cause issues 

It was my job to help

And it worked until 

I fell apart too and didn't know how to ask for help myself 

I know now 

Max is normal

Crammed behind the TV trying to get the football station to Come in strong

Beckoning Josiah to the roof 

Like its normal 

He has been my normal 

And has loved my quirky family like I love them 

And I'm grateful for all of it

My grandma with her bad leg and wide set eyes that she gave me and her sweet sweet spirit

The time she took today, rubbing my back... Something I can't ever remember her doing before. 

My Grandpa in plaid and in love holding her by her elbow, coughing up some nonsense about how our cousin shouldnt date someone who is not our kind

Our kind?? Meaning white?

We are messy and set in our ways and hurtful and hurting but

There is still love

And I'm so so grateful for this mess and this no matter what kind of love

Family. 

J

You

Are far away

Puncturing the English culture with your Bengali American flare 

Bustling around 

I see you there in the park

Snipping at pine trees with your small scissors 

Maybe wearing long and green Hunter boots

On your tiptoes

Olive beside you, or some such child 

The table is set

I can't imagine because I have just got up

But hey

That is the difference between here and there 

The ocean stretching his legs out between us 

Not building a bridge 

I wish everyone knew what I knew about you

You are strong

Yet kind and so

People don't always know

You've been thinking about this meal all week and yet 

When people enter your home

You will greet them which such comfort that

They'll think your home always looks this warm this cozy this handsome 

That you possibly just whipped the food up

They'll feel this way because you,J, will love them

And it will outweigh the food

Or the decor

Though those pine nips are adorable

C

Bon Iver is there 

Licking the noise 

You and I have chosen him over Christmas music 

The hour carries on and charcoal pencils scratch at the surface of black paper

Acrylic paint falls from tubes like a druel 

You throw down your paintbrush after I speak

and I find your tiny art in the trash

The paint is raised and the darks are brilliant next to the white 

The edges are cut imperfectly and close to the reflective objects 

carefully I compliment and critique because both of these you have blown up at saying 

I'm lying because you can do better and I'm lying 

Quietly I ask if we can talk after class while you project your feelings about your work onto me as if I said those rude things that you have said to yourself as you try and build the color

You stand 

all of yourself turned into your oversized Levi jean jacket

Hair long and rude over your shoulders 

The apron packed away 

No septum piercing today 

all I have said is

You could be an artist someday...for real, and I love your style, and great work on the tonal value 

Maybe develop this spot a little more 

And you remind me of myself but still

You say I'm lying 

And why don't I critique you more

And then I can't win because I have also tried that

I ask you to not yell during class

And also not to tell me I'm lying at least not in front of all the other students carefully bringing their work to a glow

because it comes across as disrespectful 

And you cry

You didn't mean to be disrespectful 

And I tell you that I know that 

And that its okay

I try to hug you but you tap on my back and stiffen

You tell me you really really like me

That I have good jams

To sit next to you because you are lonely

But push away every piece of sweet words I have to say

As if they are poison and unable to make you more

I call Vicki and she tells me

Yes yes you did the correct thing and 

Then

Thank you for being you

And I wince and accept it with a tiny window of my brain and then

Realize how easy it must be

To not believe 

Even

One 

Word of kindness.