Drumsticks and Tank Engines

Drumsticks and Tank Engines

By. Carley Hoffman

Laughter bubbles from the kitchen table 

as wrapping paper begins littering the carpeted floor. 

The neatly folded faces of Thomas the Train paper 

stand no match 

to my three year old brother’s excitement. 

He clutches yet another new toy to his chest

heaving with joy, chubby fingers fumbling the plastic casing.

My father leans over the chair to help him, 

but he has already started on the next gift.

We all watch eagerly from our seats, 

the early morning yellow glow from the ceiling fan above

a spotlight on cheerful faces.

That night, after grandparents and aunts and uncles 

have happily come and gone,

and even more gifts have been opened,

my brother reaches up to grasp the drumstick offered to him.

He lifts the cone above his head, tilting it as he bites the bottom first,

greedy for the coco delight inside.

My mother scolds him, saying he’ll make a mess.

The chocolate at the bottom will melt.

She picks up his cone and flips it so that he eats it the right way

and his bare feet pad across the floor

as he hurries back to the living room,

the sound of shunting trucks and pulling freights rising from the boxed T.V..

Seated on the floor, he lifts the cone once again over his head

and my mother sighs.

I lift my own cone now,

holding it above my head and tilting it as I bite off the bottom.

The sweet chocolate will melt if I eat too slowly.

Everything else may have changed, 

but chocolate still melts.

All around the room my family does the same,

cones rising in unison.

Eleven years of practice makes for muscle memory.

Thomas’s whistle blows as the movie starts,

and for a moment

we let ourselves remember.