Dichotomy

In your 2023
holiday e-greetings,
you spoke of the
year’s adventures—
travels to the city
of seven hills, and then
to the city of gold,
modern-day Babylon,
with its eternal sands,
gleaming ingots and
aromatic spices.

You also reveled
with friends in the West Indies
amid glass-clear waters
and the finest tropical rum.
Still later in the year,
you ventured to the land
of chocolate, to explore
ancient temple ruins and
perhaps shop for Taxco silver
inlaid with turquoise.

Finally, you made sure
to mention your happy
place, where you spent
two months of the twelve
in the opulent leisure
of your well-appointed
second residence somewhere
warm of course, with a
glorious coastline.

Nice, I thought,
but not as grand as
my travels this year,
though I did not feel
it was fitting to make
a holiday letter of it.

For as I nursed
a sick child, mowed
the grass, planted
zinnias and paid the bills,
I traveled to Paris
in my mind’s eye,
and found my dead
father, who had not
died after all, but was
quite well— twinkling eyes,
perennially handsome,
tucked in a corner
of the airport by a
vast window, watching
Air France planes taxi
into place, sucking on
sugar cubes wrapped in
decorated paper while
he waited for me.

Claire Juno © 2023