In preparation for Thanksgiving day, the aroma
of warm cranberries swirls up into my nose.
I whip my head upwards to spot my mother
slowly decanting each intact cranberry into the silver,
polished pot of heated water.  Audible plopping
noises ascend from the pot and I draw near
to embrace the details of each unique berry.  
I bound into the radius of the invisible blanket
and comfort instantly wraps my soul.
I observe her massaging the berries,
the water splashing, bubbling, foaming. 
Vapor rises and surrounds my toasty face,
just as a heavy fog would after a shift
in temperature.  Each individual berry
continued to uniformly heat
as they are sifted through with the light
wooden spoon. Berries toppled, grew darker,
and shifted positions, until 
a bit of moisture lept out of its pleasant home
and fused with the frigid world beyond.
This small concentration of heat stung
my face, as if a pimple had popped.
For minutes, this popping continued,
and when I again perused the berries,
all that was visible was a paste, a sauce, a cream.
Spheres were replaced with a mushy
consistency, the red mirroring dark blood.
This substance landed on my tongue
the next day.  My canines and molars
attempted to take a bite, but it was no use. 
The soft sauce dribbled down my throat steadily.
Past my gums occasionally glided
small bits of chunky roundness.
My wide, moist lips authorized spoonfuls
upon spoonfuls of berries to
enter the castle beyond.  The flattened berries
soon absorbed and digested me, tearing
away at my own flesh with every bite.
Dependent, I extend my glossy spoon
to the center bowl, but a tiny clink sends an ache
down my ear canal. I look up to spot
an exact copy of me in my brother’s body.
Our eyes are locking, glaring, but not blinking.
Scowls materialize.  Spoons still in contact,
our tendons and ligaments solidify into
a rigid, tense, and stationary position.