This Christmas I went home again

By Mary Bowen

This Christmas I went home again.

House ramshackle, so cold, so much sadder
than my memory. Eyes seized, unwillingly,
seeking out the dents hollows dings dings
patched up places my father built with care
not, with kicked furnishings, fists and screams.

I saw how much the ceilings sunk and
failed to reach the thin walls more often
than not. They only glanced like fingertips,
human hearts or lips: time to time by
accident before retreating with sag and shrug.

And I thought I heard the mallet pound
pummel pound the tough flesh--Mommy’s
cheap cube steak we’d saw and gnaw and
gulp down between meatloaf and macaroni.
That gristle webbing and greying, tin limp beans.

Squinting, I saw the coldest sun bounce off
the copper wire Daddy stripped from engines—
only when he was sober, mind, only when
he could rise out of the couch and Pabst
Blue Ribbon. To tide us til the gov. man check.

I loved the look and smell--reddish, some gold
and pinky-scented rust and sweaty palms, all
holding the potential of pennies. And dumpster
lamps rewired new, chifforobes freed of paint
three coats high. I’d watch the flat knife work.

I always tip pizza men too much in case kids
and wife wait for the dough to stretch. Another
sometimes job--always under the counter where
the gov. man couldn’t see. But how many bills
sauntered down to the Checkered Flag instead?

Doorway to my room’s the same. In the wood
I saw the shove ‘gainst the grain and teenage grit.
Dad needs green for the Checkered Flag and
my stocking’s full. I block and weave and hug
the way and call for Mom til the stop, stomp and huff.

This Christmas I went home again.

Dad ramshackle, so cold, so much sadder
than his memory. Eyes innocent, blank, a child.
All is gone and no anger can I summon or seek
in the dents hollows dings dings patched up places
life built with care not in my father’s face.

And I hear the patter slide pat on the cracked
linoleum—I’m learning to dance! And the root beer
float floats high in my glass. 3WS crackles and
stills and beams out the song called in, a request just
for me, only me, my precious honey pooh.

Hey there Lil Red Ridin’ Hood, You sure are lookin’
good. You’re everythang a Big Bad Wolf could want.
When Sam the Sham begins to howl, how I love it when
he howls! And when he keeps his sheep suit on, he’s
everything. Everything a Little Lost Girl could want.

Mary Bowen is a Boston-based writer with a background in theater and film studies. Her film reviews have appeared in the journal Cineaste and her poetry in Seton Hill University's art and literary magazine Eye Contact.