Poetry Friday is hosted by Linda @ Teacher Dance
Today’s lunch was the last of the turkey soup, and, by proxy, the Christmas turkey. We made the most of that turkey: pot pie, sandwiches, and soup. That’s the last we will see of turkey until November, which is (at the moment) a big relief.
I almost tossed out this last bit of soup, so bored with turkey have I grown, but there was no time to make anything else this morning, and I cannot bring myself to resort to middle school cafeteria lunches. So turkey soup it was.
In the quiet of my classroom, my plastic container of soup settled between two piles of reading journals awaiting my review, I found myself transported back to the holidays: the meals shared with children home at last, the conversations around the table, the companionable silence of just being in the same room with the people you love most in the world.
I was glad we made soup…if only to give me the chance, once more, to savor just-past memories, and be to be grateful.
After it all, the events of the holidays,
the dinner tables passing like great ships,
everybody made soups for a while.
Cooked and cooked until the broth kept
the story of the onion, the weeping meat.
It was over, the year was spent, the new one
had yet to make its demands on us,
each day lay in the dark like a folded letter.
Then out of it all we made one final thing
out of the bounty that had not always filled us,
out of the ruined cathedral carcass of the turkey,
the limp celery chopped back into plenty,
the fish head, the spine. Out of the rejected,
the passed over, never the object of love.
It was as if all the pageantry had been for this:
the quiet after, the simmered light,
the soothing shapes our mouths made as we tasted.