Traditions by Karli Henning

It was the last weekend of November in a little-better-than-dive bar
and we sipped on spiked coffee instead of beer while we waited
for the fireworks show to begin above the state capital building.
The creamy drinks were lukewarm at best but they thawed
our fingertips and the small but growing conversation.

 

My father always drove us two towns over to pick out
the highest quality Christmas tree during the last weekend of November
not because he loved to play lumberjack tour guide
but because it meant two more hours with three happy daughters,
hot chocolate upholstery stains and a million pine needles in his backseat.

 

I am buying another round as a Christmas gift to all of you!
shouted one friend who never got a chance because
the soft thud of the first firework shook the bar windows.
It was a signal for us to re-bundle and shuffle out onto the sidewalk

to scope out a spot to tilt our raw pink faces to the sky.

 

The explosions drowned out murmuring carols from citywide speakers.
The violent blasts of gunpowder mixed with humming bells
and the sporadic lights against black clouds
made me close my eyes to see a dance of red particles.
There was a sudden wave of gasps and I knew the tree was lit.

 

Eyes still closed, I pictured roots bursting
from the bottom of the Christmas tree
shaped like the arms of fireworks, dripping flecks of gold.
They reached all the way to an old farm on a dirt road two towns away
in the last weekend of November.

 

Originally Published in the January/February 2016 Issue.