They travel to the New World in 1960s Technicolor
as I make my list of groceries for this year’s holiday dinner.
I cannot fathom taking this journey of faith,
much less experimenting with a new recipe on my daughter’s new in-laws.
The menu will include old favorites
and maybe something with yams (okay, and marshmallows)
to please my other daughter’s boyfriend.
And my husband will make the gravy
as he always does.
But nothing like this,
nothing like trying to hold the Mayflower together
during a stomach-churning storm,
or scraping my meager portion of oatmeal
into my child’s empty bowl
or losing all hope and faith,
or, even more unbelievable,
holding on to both.
I could never have been a Pilgrim.
I would not have bought into their pure belief
in beginning over in a New World.
But maybe I would have stood on the shore
as they began their journey,
until the Mayflower was just a black fleck
on the horizon.
And I would have wished them well
as I walked back to my own small cottage,
ready to begin a new day,
looking forward to a visit from my daughters,
getting a bit more annoyed
by the politics of the day
and hoping my husband
might stoke the fire, make today’s gravy
and keep the bed warm all night.