When we walked through French doors
Somewhere in Trafalgar, Indiana
Aunts and cousins rung their arms
Around my neck and squeezed
My sides until they tingled.

The night before we made seven pies,
filling and all. We planned our day
Around the timing and baking
And creating of it all. After awkward
Reintroductions and college small talk,
Each relative grabbed another’s hand
And made a sloppy circle around
The entirety of the space and bowed
Our heads for grace and thanks.

How do you say you are thankful
For being alive? None of us could.
All of us, a chain with no anchor.
Swaying back and forth in current,
Waves lapping the shore.

No one said your name.
Everyone watched your kids say
Things like- I’m happy to be here with everyone.
But no one says they’re grateful
When the thing they love is gone.

After dinner we ate our pies
And one by one the only things left
Were glass dishes and tinfoil.
How often do we do this?
The pursuit of building,
Knowing the end can only be
Completely breaking.