Marmalade



My father has spoken to spirits all day.
The carolers are long gone.
Christmas gifts are unwrapped
and piled back under the tree.
The hoped for snow never came. 

We carry my father's gift into the bedroom.
Strawberry marmalade.
Wrapped gaily even though we know
he can't see or smell it, won't be able
to eat it 

He sighs, then is silent, takes one more breath
and becomes shooting stars, fireflies, and pink
cotton candy. 

The room is filled with my father
for the last time. 

I feel my knees buckle.

Sometime after midnight we hear the first snow.

                              

Pris Campbell
©2012

Holiday Issue: The Dead Mule 2012

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