As I Rewind

The hands of the golden oak clock spin
the wrong way on the wall of my childhood

house as I rewind the Christmas video. It’s over
twenty years ago. My young mother’s head

—sped up—jerks on the screen. Brunette
in a blue velour day robe. Rewound

her coffee mug fills a dark inch
each time she sips. The Maine Coon uncurls

from our peach couch, leaps to the window
in reverse. My grandfather’s scarred thumb

nudges into view—only once—and I pause
that second. Black shadow: he’s behind

the camera. He can’t stop
focusing the lens on me. I sit at the green wire

feet of the plastic tree. I smooth shut
the wrapping paper, re-secret the objects, seal

all the ripped seams. The stripes of winter
sun—rewound—run eastward,

and the smoke from my grandfather’s cigar
ciphers back into leaves.

--Anna Journey