{"id":28294,"date":"2016-08-14T07:26:14","date_gmt":"2016-08-14T11:26:14","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/?p=28294"},"modified":"2016-08-14T07:26:14","modified_gmt":"2016-08-14T11:26:14","slug":"holiday-2","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/2016\/08\/holiday-2\/","title":{"rendered":"Holiday"},"content":{"rendered":"

Warm glowing crackles from the stone hearth<\/strong><\/p>\n

as the circle begins to grow. <\/strong><\/p>\n

Murmuring voices gather into lilting laughter and stories of growing old. <\/strong><\/p>\n

The davenport is getting seedy from generations of hands and bodies. <\/strong><\/p>\n

Oils that have left behind their traces; ghosts of friends and family. <\/strong><\/p>\n

The walls have been many colors, <\/strong><\/p>\n

once even a fake wood. <\/strong><\/p>\n

The chip in the corner from children\u2019s scuffling<\/strong><\/p>\n

tells a rainbow story of passing time. <\/strong><\/p>\n

There is a sturdy deep red rocker sitting where<\/strong><\/p>\n

the enfolding over-stuffed recliner used to be. <\/strong><\/p>\n

It finally reached its end, <\/strong><\/p>\n

when Granma could feel the springs.<\/strong><\/p>\n

Its twin is losing the floral skirt,<\/strong><\/p>\n

but still carries enough fluff for Grandpa\u2019s bones.<\/strong><\/p>\n

On the table, in the middle, <\/strong><\/p>\n

sits the perpetual monopoly game <\/strong><\/p>\n

that has entertained so many rainy days. <\/strong><\/p>\n

In the air, the smell of dinner wafting through <\/strong><\/p>\n

the house making everyone\u2019s mouth water <\/strong><\/p>\n

with thoughts of roast turkey, <\/strong><\/p>\n

mashed potatoes <\/strong><\/p>\n

and pumpkin pie.<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

Holiday<\/strong><\/p>\n

Lue<\/strong><\/p>\n

August 14, 2016<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Warm glowing crackles from the stone hearth as the circle begins to grow. Murmuring voices gather into lilting laughter and stories of growing old. The davenport is getting seedy from generations of hands and bodies. Oils that have left behind their traces; ghosts of friends…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":291,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[7,441],"tags":[386,412,2056,127,273],"class_list":["post-28294","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-marathon-poem","category-poetry-prompt-responses","tag-dinner","tag-family","tag-holiday","tag-home-2","tag-hour-23"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/28294","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/291"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=28294"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/28294\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":28315,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/28294\/revisions\/28315"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=28294"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=28294"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=28294"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}