family traditions

wrapped in blankets handmade
with my grandmother’s loving hands
two knitting needles
and yards of yarn,
my little boys watch as i
recreate my mother’s
christmas eve feast
of pancakes dripping with
blueberry syrup
swirled with half-melted butter
on our hand-me-down
snowman plates.

bacon sizzles on the stove
its hiss and pop echoed
somewhere deep within
the fireplace, behind the logs
cut by my brother, with an axe
given to him by my grandfather
who also used it
to cut wood
to keep his own family warm
during frigid Oklahoma winters.

finally it’s time
for little fingers to
dig into warm flapjacks,
picking bites up with their hands,
staining their skin a peculiar shade
of purplish-blue in the process–
but it’s worth the momentary discoloration–
for sticky-sweet, fruit-flavored kisses
and the lop-sided smiles that come
with the familiarity of
family traditions.