It starts with just an innocent *clink*.
Grandma takes a gentle sip of red wine.
A reserved woman, less so with a drink,
A widow who isn’t embarrassed to cross the line.
Merry Christmas to those here and those not.
Now we are discussing immigration.
For my grandpa, down goes another shot,
And up comes more talk of our “broken” nation.
Here comes the Swedish liquor on a tray,
The drink she found too strong five years ago.
“Tradition” she says, putting it away.
Things pass, like her reasons to say no.
Sly glances exchanged by those of us sober,
Her drink is diluted and passed on over.