Night Walk

Now it is December night and you are out walking, defying two feet
of snow, black ice, and the wind chill factor. You wear a scarf
around your face and breathe in old wool. The bell
on the liquor store door rings when you enter and the owner
limps towards you with his old football injury. He was hard then
and is soft now, around the jowls, and too young,
you think, to be stuck here six days a week —
no ‘off-sale’ shopping for booze on Sunday. Instead,
you accompany your father to the Lutheran church
and when you sing those hip new hymns,
your voice is clear as vodka.

You’ve cut down, stay away on Mondays and Tuesdays.
Today is Wednesday, the day to shop.
The owner is making seasonal small-talk
and you listen now because you need each other. You can tell
from the tacky tinsel tree on the counter that he’s alone,
adrift in a lake full of empty bottles without messages.
You hand over money and place in your backpack
chocolate wine for your father’s sweet tooth, and rum
to mix with eggnog for tonight when you decorate the tree.

You are the only one walking in the neighbourhood tonight.
You skate out to the parking lot and cross the road,
take in all the houses, all the lights, mostly red and green.
On your father’s street you stop in front of one huge tree
that looms over a front yard, its trunk wound with strings
of golden lights, like kernels of Minnesota corn.
You’ve seen the couple going to work in shiny suits,
carrying matching metallic mugs. The first time
they turned on those lights, your father was puzzled,
then shrugged at another piece of the changing world.

You stand and stare now. The wind has stopped
but your hands are numb and you’re weighed down
with nostalgia, and by your recent dark habit
of waking up between three and four.
You make footprints through your yard to make some kind of point.
The crunch of snow under your boot is a loud sigh.

Candyce Lange

If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Candyce Lange  would like to hear them