Sestina for Spring 2020
I have never been one for tradition.
Easter parties, silly, stuffy crowded
gardens, tasting cookies, having awkward
conversation makes me wonder how long
before I can go home. I flinch. Children
race past shrieking, playing. I leave alone
grateful for the quiet. Today alone,
strange new virus interrupts tradition.
Stuck at home. I guess I’ll call the children
pretend I am visiting their crowded
homes on video. I wonder how long
until life is normal. I feel awkward
with the lag, frozen faces laugh awkwardly.
“It’s nice to hear your voice,” I say alone
in my apartment, realize I long
to go to weddings, honor tradition
sweating in a metal chair on crowded
football field in the sun watching children
realize they are no longer children.
Give me a picnic, messy and awkward.
I’d run an egg hunt just to see the crowd’s
pastel dresses. I’d watch it all alone
from sidelines, upholding the tradition.
Clock ticks on warping time as days grow long.
Solitude rots. Despite myself I long
for Easter parties, rough hugs from children.
Worn-out speeches, faded with tradition,
seem refreshing. Now I welcome awkward.
“No, I’ll stay home. I’d rather be alone,”
I used to say. “It seems there’ll be a crowd.”
Now I dream of crowds of rowdy children,
fantasize about a long and awkward
talk. Alone I stew in my tradition.
