Tall pines tower over my brothers and me, our short breaths visible in the December chill
that cuts through our matching corduroy jackets as we dash through rows of Fir trees
in search; our leather-soled saddle shoes slick on the winter grass, frozen, unforgiving,
it tears a pant knee while mom strolls behind, tolerant of her boys jaunt through the
Christmas tree farm of youth; beside her, our father, red saw in hand to fell our tree,
patiently enjoys the familiar winter scene, but to me that moment feels like the
first holiday, the only holiday, the only moment in a blessed life of adventure
and growth as we explore a magical forest before each taking a turn on the red saw,
momentarily removing our wool mittens to be men, but savoring a carefree child's
Christmas that begins with a Noble Fir atop our family's Delta 88.

It was only when I held his hand in mine,
feeling the grip of a boy facing the world
with courage–
dreaming, questing, imagining what he will be one day,
stretching his arms to the sky to make room for his dreams–
eyes alight, smile bright, mind turning faster than the chrome spokes on his racer bike;
the gift from a father who remembers the freedom of timeless rides beneath warm summer sun,
dirt paths beside a running creek,
the humid smell of thunderstorms on asphalt, peddling faster and faster he goes,
the wheels of a young mind spinning closer to wondering ‘who am I’ in a world in which
the best answers are taken,
the intriguing  puzzles solved,
the highest peaks climbed,
making the challenge of ‘I’ and the question of ‘who’ slip further and further from reach,
like a toy airplane on a string – propeller roaring, lights blinking, around it turns,
but no where it goes–
and his tender fingers, wrapped in childhood nostalgia, reach for mine,
and they feel like my father’s hands,
which feel like my hands;
hands the three of us share,
all reaching for the same thing.