Begins the dreaded yearning
for hearth and home
as only Mom can make it . . .
a pervasive, clinging need
to nestle in the warm embrace
and drink from the wellspring
of utter contentment.
And so the journey,with attendance to a multitude
of details large and small,
the flurry of messages
so all is properly prepared,
paid for, sealed, delivered
to the doorstep
of the elusive family of heart.
Each gathering brings
the flood of memory
washing pores in bracing chill,
peeling the layers bit by bit
until all the adult trappings
and you become
the impressionable, innocent child
of yester year.
Yet with the vestiges
of bitter disillusionment remain.
Hence, the clangor and din
with which the most precious
of long awaited (and feared) days passes,
reducing us to our basest of selves,
hammering at each other
in long held patterns of familial, ritualistic torture
. . . . . to devolvement,
a flood of tears and aching hearts,
a tentative reweaving of the tapestry,
each time believing the threads
are realigned just differently enough
that the picture will have a different face
until the next time
the yearning begins.