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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=448777" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Holidays</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Why are they called holidays? '<br>she said<br>'they never are; <br>more like feeling someone<br>is destroying the road behind you<br>as you walk toward the sunset; <br>or like having the past be a dark shroud<br>thrown over you as you journey to a past<br>you left or didn't like.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">How can I long for my childhood and still be a grownup? <br>How to wring from the holiday meal<br>love, respect, revenge all these things<br>from a repast? <br>And how quickly the past returns<br>when it was the past you wanted most to outrun? <br>How quickly the old relationships re-establish<br>just like they had never gone.<br>Change and no-change sit to eat<br>yet neither adequately reflect the truths we all live.<br>So parallelisms and false similes abound; <br>we all sit-no way forward; no way back; no way around; <br>home is not so sweet<br>because it lives in its own iron time warp<br>and time is what homes are supposed to forge<br>new<br>independent identities.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">My plane circled over head<br>hesitating to land<br>since there is no runway to the future<br>only runways to the past.<br>Yet there I must be 'for<br>for yet another holiday.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I call Mom and she gives me joy<br>and that guilt which says<br>why haven't you called<br>and did her gift<br>of winter mittens<br>arrive in my mailbox in Florida? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The house before me, <br>the room I lived in<br>have been preserved<br>just like I still lived there; <br>time stood still in mom's mind.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It is suddenly clear to me<br>she wants<br>me back in the room of my childhood<br>and once again age eleven.<br>But alas, it is not true<br>I am all grown up; <br>the bed doesn't fit anymore-<br>but just for her I pretend it does-<br>and phoney up a smile<br>for the sake of the holiday-ness.<br> <br>This is the Stance of Love we give<br>our moms and dads<br>which allow them just once a year<br>to re-fill <br>their empty nests<br>and for us kids<br>who willingly<br>or unwillingly<br>reconnect<br>things old<br>with things new<br>which gives us<br>the mix and brew<br>we sip<br>just before<br>the year<br>new; <br>it's taste<br>bitter sweet<br>with Ironies<br>on our tongue.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Lonnie+Hicks">Lonnie Hicks</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=448777" data-title="The Holidays de Lonnie Hicks" data-description="Why are they called holidays? '
she said
'they never are; 
more like feeling someone
is destroying the road behind you
as you walk toward the sunset; 
or like having the past be a dark shroud
thrown over you as you journey to a past
you left or di..."></div>
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