Every year
the day after Thanksgiving
my father came home
with a large box held out like a cachet of jewels.
Jane Parker, Ann Page,
I could never remember the name
raised in gold letters on red foil.
Only that it came from the A & P
where we never shopped because
they didn’t carry credit.
The size of this fruitcake,
ten pounds, fifteen?
depended on how well the winter
went; no doctor’s visits,
the water heater stayed fixed,
and a load of dry wood
stacked in the shed
for the stove.

Every night
as he sat at the table,
my father had the cake
brought before him.
He peeled back the cheesecloth
like a surgeon, measured a juice
glass of apple or blackberry brandy
and carefully basted the cake.
Such luxury, such wealth in that smell,
the light reflected in fruits
and nuts; my father’s face bright,
his eyes eager as he tasted
in his mind . . . that cake.
The cake was a crown,
rubies and emeralds, citrines,
and pearls in that kitchen
where even the green Formica table
and plastic upholstered chairs
were bought on time.

We watched.
We drank the rich smell,
knew we’d someday taste
this thing so rare. So expensive.
So reserved for adults
when we became brave
and wise, full of what it took
to face the world and buy
ourselves a prize.

From Tea and Other Assorted Poems ((Main Street Rag, 2010).
Used with the author’s permission.