Sitting next to my grandmother
with an unreadable box of letters
was the most tragic thing at Christmas.
We sipped soup
and ate strukli
at the tiny table
with the snow falling hard all around
the veranda and my socks drying
on the radiator.
The radio goes,
plain and serious,
the evening news is in
and I am sitting with
my whole self
weeping.
the relief
of places
warm, slow
and shared.
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