Thanksgiving on I-95

1.
Highways are empty
on holiday nights. Everyone
stays home with their
Norman Rockwell families:
Picture-perfect with the
too-brown turkey, the mother
plastering a smile over her
pink cheeks. The knife glistens
in Father's hand, poised to slice.

2.
Every since he started wandering,
We forbade Grandpa to drive.
Today he actually obeyed.
So tonight our headlights
(thank god) burn away the
thick darkness that smothers old
I-95.
The car, a capsule, presses
isolated into the night,
alone, save for
the distant signals
of farr-off strangers.

3.
Right now we are all
happy, so happy
an excerpt from that
Jollyjolly Rockwell snapshot.
The windshield vibrates
with soulful old showtunes.
Did you ever notice how perfect
the car is for these
cheery family gatherings?

4.
For a moment, it seems,
we are a family again.
A veritable chorus of
Joy and Gladness.
Grandma's reedy voice
softly rising, a tuneless hum
above the thick words we
belt out against the windows.
Singing makes her happy.
She can barely hum the bars, now
but music pleases
the inner child.
(the out adult stripped away
longago.)

5.
Grandpa's voice slides heavy
against the November-cold window.
He has forgotten the words but
remembers the song: he always loved
(I learn) these old showtunes.
"Did you know I once sang in a choir?"
Like any grandpa
sharing stories with children.

6.
Our voices swell.
For a moment
the picture remains complete.
For a moment
all is forgot, all is forgiven
we are, like any other,
a Norman Rockwell family
on a Norman Rockwell night.

This is based on actual events from Thanksgiving. As an epilogue, we immediately set to arguing as soon as we got to Grandma and Grandpa's house, which says a lot about our family.