Cold Turkey
By Will Katzka

The smell of sweet Vermont air rushes up through my nose
Followed by the warm and comforting smell of turkey.
My hands clench the chair and then the knife and fork as my appetite grows larger.
The first slice comes and my grip becomes tighter.
But then, beyond the site of turkey and gravy
I see a window through which icicle is hanging.
The slow drip of water down to the last frozen section
Steals my eyes from the entire night.
Accompanying the icicle in some sort of weird three dimensional
Windows XP background is a never ending universe of snow.
I see myself throwing snowballs and building snowmen.
Me and my friend are snowboarding down the fills.
He reaches the bottom first so unbeknownst to him,
I pickup a snowball. I rear back to throw and release.
And as I watch the snow fly on its perfect arc towards my friend,
My thoughts are wrenched back to the dinner table,
Through the snow, past the icicle, barely through the turkey.
My grandfather had asked me a question.
I was still caught in my thoughts of the snowball when I saw that
I was not only back at the table, but the ball had followed me.
Still in the same perfect motion and direction but this time,
My grandfather was in the same spot my friend had been.
It hits him square in the face and snow explodes all over the table, the walls,
Even on the turkey. It trickles down the legs of the table and gets in my plate.
My grandfather, frustrated by my lack of response, asks the question again
And the snow disappears to both my amusement and longing for it to stay.