We Gather Together

Despite his skill with an ailing engine,

his hands hardened, cracked and scarred,

my father’s real specialty was mashed potatoes.

Those golden spuds he would whip up white and fluffy,

mixed with the right amount of milk and butter

for a perfect texture, all whirled together between the tines

of an electric mixer, until they were soft

and smooth, not a lump to be found.

Everyone raved about them, and him, too,

at church suppers, placed there amid the casseroles,

baked beans and macaroni salads,

the meatloaves and sliced ham and turkey.

Perhaps he missed his calling in the culinary arts;

or maybe this was time to himself,

a few moments to reflect on life as the mixer

twirled and swirled the dry potatoes,

boiled soft now, and steaming, into a dish to share,

a fellowship of pot luck calling us all together,

a church social or his large family

settling down around a holiday table,

a gathering gathered together by his love and mashed potatoes.