We were simpatico, mostly, except when you slipped into your father’s skin. Your dad and mom were hand in glove, you bragged. His hand, her pliant glove, I thought, but never said.
Every year something arrived in my mailbox, before during or after;
the timing unrelated to any mystery
you’d entered and explored
before emerging with that year’s
small parcel summation…
“Once again we come together.
This is the season to sharpen knives,
test the waters, prepare for weather.
Bitter almond, thyme, sage, cloves:
spices this time of year requires.”