Ghosts of Thanksgiving

They represent, collectively, 800 turkeys carved or more,

Norman Rockwell's famous
"Freedom from Want" painting

2000 pies, a treasure trove of casseroles, a semi load of

sweet ice tea, hot rolls with butter by the barrel. 

Sixty years, around, of holidays made special 

for their families and friends. Or not. Some have the look 

of scoundrels still. Old age does not erase past hurts,

but listening to now cracked and feeble voices try to

stay on key for Silent Night, I hope that there are people

who will visit those who gave them many memories 

in younger years, who set a table with the candles 

and good china, worked for hours on a meal because that's 

what you do. Or what you did once long ago.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2018

Global Warming

Long before we knew the temperature of Daddy’s brain was shifting, so to speak,

the mercury inched upward.

Liquid memories began to drip into the sea, but slowly, almost imperceptibly, and no one noticed,

or not much.

Mama got annoyed, of course, convinced it was his quiet yet persistent way to pay her back for all her past remarks that hurt him, the sins she’d done, the kindnesses she’d overlooked.

When doctors validated Daddy’s, well, condition, affixing it with labels long and clinical, the guilt that she accepted, almost welcomed, wasn’t something she could wave, a fan to cool him, slow the glacial melting of his mind.

And now, years later, it is more like global warming. Chunks of iceberg – decades, occupations falling with great splashes to the salty sea of tears we choke back as he asks another question that he asked before and asks perhaps another six or seven times within the hour.

Where is your mother?

What am I doing here?

I don’t know what’s going on. I feel so useless.

Where is your mother?

What am I doing here?

I don’t know what’s going on. I feel so useless.

And to be sure, a melting glacier has but little purpose.

Still, it has a grandeur and a substance that is mighty,

that is fierce, although diminishing a little every second,

and more each passing day.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2017