Welcome back to the Daily Poem, a podcast from Goldberry Studios.

I'm Sean Johnson, and today is Wednesday, December 20th, 2003.

Today's poem is by Ruth Moose, and it is called My Father's Fruitcake.

I'll read it once and then say something about it. Maybe read it again.

We'll see. Here is my father's fruitcake.

Every year, the day after Thanksgiving, my father came home with a large box held out like a

cachet of jewels. Jane Parker and Paige, I could never remember the name raised in gold letters on red foil,

only that it came from the A&P where we never shopped because they didn't carry credit.

The size of this fruitcake, 10 pounds, 15, depended on how well the winter went.

No doctor's visits. The water heater stayed fixed and a load of dry wood

stacked in the shed with the stove. Every night as he sat at the table. My father had the cake

brought before him. He peeled back the cheesecloth like a surgeon, measured a juice glass of

apple or blackberry brandy, and carefully basted the cake.

Such luxury, such wealth in that smell, the light reflected in fruits, nuts.

My father's face bright, his eyes eager as he tasted in his mind, that cake.

The cake was a crown, rubies and emeralds, citrines and pearls in that kitchen,

where even the green for mica table and plastic upholstered chairs were bought on time.

We watched. We drank the rich smell, knew we'd someday taste this thing so rare, so expensive,

so reserved for adults when we became brave and wise, full of what it took to face the world

and buy ourselves a prize.

This is an unexpected poem.

At least that was my reaction the first time I encountered it and read it.

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