Thanksgiving with Dad

We sit, 

And all that space between us,

Has gone,

As if it never were, or never mattered, 

The air is as trivial as it is thick,

Trivial with the muffled muttering of Trebek on the absurd T.V.

And trivial with whispers of housemates, speaking their own confused riddles,

But thick with memories of harsh words and death and betrayal and disease,

Eating at heart, lung, and mind,

Until here, we sit, 

Watching our breath and calories ooze out and merge with every other little thing,

And we laugh at simple riddles, 

Not daring to speak,

Of that which is either trivial or thick. 

 

Because, at last,

We know that nothing and everything matters.

And soon, these memories, both the trivial and thick,

Will all be mine.