Pad across the frigid floor
in your bare feet, and run a glass of water.
The lit up numbers on the microwave
say it's still Christmas Eve for twenty minutes longer.
A week back home in Idaho
among cousins' faces, strange-and-yet-familiar,
and drinks and games and films that end the same old ways:
it's all as it was, but there's no way to account for
the time that passed through everyone,
too much of it to name or even make sense of,
the hopes and fears of all the years
chasing a clarity that never seems to come.
Is it just, hold
until the end?
Pad downstairs to the double bed
where your cousin is already softly sleeping
and pull the covers up around your head
and shake, and stare up at the ceiling