Gathering by Jacqueline Cleaveland

I see him again
in my dreams
at a Christmas party. He is the center,

he commands as the host, quietly
in a white tie, his shoes touch
the polished wooden floor.
Grandfather to all, we are in his house—
it is filled with people I do not know,
they’re cousins of mine, I am told.
They laugh with me
as if they know my name.
One sits close to me,
we press thigh to thigh
in a single rocking chair.

Another relative asks me to translate
a love letter written in French, I help her
even though I don’t know the words
away from that room. She thanks me,
and her breath smells of far-away smoke.
There, I see him, amidst his smile
he winks. He knows.
His glasses are still round, his chipped tooth
gleams. I am relieved. “Thank goodness, he is alive.”
That other life where he is gone
is merely a trick.



From Southern California, Jacqueline Cleaveland works as a staff writer for a local university.