A Gift

They home, like salmon to their
natal stream, seeking the comfort
of the only nest they’ve known.
Childhood neurons triggered by
beef bourguignon, baked ziti,
and bedrooms that remain undenned.

At 70 resentment still can
brush my cheeks red. Nerves quick to fire
with one more many-petaled request.
Even from one’s own muscled genes.
Even when it’s all years past.

But, what a gift it is when children
return home to snuggle in bed
despite their thirty-something years
and job tenure.

Soon enough we’ll be cold ashes in an urn.

Gary D. Grossman
Verse-Virtual, April 2024