Monday, December 25th, 2017

December Twenty-Fifth, Two-Thousand Seventeen.

On Christmas day, we are a family.


Iris row-row-rows the boat of Uncle Dan and Akiva in the big black chair

up and down, up and down.







Gramma (my mother, formerly known as Mom but now moved upward to a twice-exalted status)

cooks in what once was and what some day will be a lovely the kitchen.

This Christmas, again, it is an in-between kitchen, where one can admire the sub-floor,

the patterns of glue of plywood, the angles of dangling wires,

and the texture of scraped plaster.

Whatever state the kitchen, Christmas dinner tastes the same: delicious.







Papa (known as Martin by his peers) interviews his 100-year-old grandmother-in-law.

His charm is measureless and beyond words.






Gramps (once known as Dad, but now increased in rank)

washes Christmas dinner dishes at the exact same kitchen sink,

still located in the exact same place (note that!)

for the 39th year in a row.







In attendance but not pictured:

Mama (a.k.a. Jess(si[ca]) : photographer

Dinner: consumed with glee and without pause



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