I am wearing one of your socks

snow creaks under my work boots

there must be a hole

in the sole of the left

because there’s a wet feeling on one toe

flakes drift down in clumps and the poor birds are fluffing their feathers against the cold

i wish my jacket was thicker

i smell woodsmoke

and remember how you’d light fires on chilly mornings

in the addition you built

with the barn wood walls

with the river stone fireplace

i remember it was the warmest room in the house

we were all there on the holidays

grownups on the couches

us kids on the carpet

i think of christmases

and how they felt different (better) when you were still here

i remember you

driving us around to look at lights

i was cozy in the backseat

crammed between family and family

the radio buzzed

old timey carols and hymns

but i could still hear all of our oohs and aahs

well,

all except yours

you were characteristically quiet

not mute, certainly not dumb,

but

always,

preferring not to speak

i think your quiet was deliberate—

maybe you chose silence because you were too busy listening to

the people

you loved

being happy

or maybe you were just enjoying the music

of the christmases of your youth

and remembering the people who had gone before?

i can still hear bing crosby crooning

today he is in the wind that blows through these leaf-bare trees

no wait, that’s my voice,

singing:

there’s no place like home for the holidays

but only one house has ever felt like home to me—

with the handmade fires

in the handmade fireplace

in the handmade barnwood family room

the world would call it modest… rustic

but it was a mansion of warmth and safety for us

you let us live there

when mom had nowhere else to go

i felt so homesick when we moved out

but i didn’t just miss your place, i missed you

then you visited our new house

while we were sleeping

you scattered sooty boot prints and cookie crumbs in our new living room

you left a santa hat

i knew it was you

things felt better

but here i am, all grown up

… freezing my ass off

under the whispering pines, snow crunches beneath my feet

it’s the drum beat

of

a

white christmas

without

you

pa-rump-bum-bum-CRUNCH

now my other toes are wet

my sock is too

not my sock

i’m wearing your sock, grandpa

the green one with the geese

it’s still yours

though you are gone

a hand-me-down from an old man

who was willing to be saint nicholas

and more

an old man who was willing to be

dad

for a kid who had none…

your other sock is in the laundry

i only wear one at a time

to max out the memories

i must ration these sacred relics

because your house was bulldozed a while back

and i think i’ll cry again

if these socks ever get holes