Having family around for the holidays means
group kills, head shots, and competition.
We argue over who has had the best aim thus far
so we go out looking for them, like we've never been afraid.
When Jimmy gets his rifle shinned up and ready
our uncles take him outside, leading him by the shoulder,
telling him of their favorite kills.
They ask each other for direction
like asking for another slice of turkey
or a biscuit, something typical.
They challenge one another to shots like
whiskey toasts and no one thinks
of beer when you say shotgun.
Routine breeds false comfort
and although I find myself wishing
for forever Christmas,
I know soon we must move again,
separate,
and forget the family we once knew.
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