That Which We Cannot Say Aloud

‘Tis warm and welcoming, a glow of a  

Low-burning fire, the light into which we step.

Familiar, long-distant voices greet us;

Embrace we arms in a gesture well-known.

A vital query is upon their lips --

“Did you remember to bring pumpkin pie?”

We laugh; of course we did -- who would forget?

The meal is never a quiet affair;

After the breaking of the bread, the talk

Flows and crashes in waves over the table

As cousins squabble over the gravy

And corn is squished into mashed potatoes.

Old tales are retold a hundredfold, but

No one minds; this is something expected,

A thought comfortable -- tradition we all hold dear.

After, games appear and silent acting

Becomes the norm now once more, until we

Sing together, as horribly off key

As ever; cards fly and flip and float through

The air when we gather to play that which

My grandfather probably made on a

Rainy day (though we have no proof of it).

Then we joke and mock and laugh together,

In memories and tales past, revelling.

To bed then we go, for the next morning

Is to be an early one for us all

But there shall be soup when we come back home

And for that, among all else, we give hugs

And feed those we love until they are full;

For wordlessly is how we best express

That which we cannot ever say aloud.

It is this wordlessness I need,

It is this wordlessness I adore...

It is this worldlessness I shall miss.