The kitchen is still chilly.
The fire in our old coal range
hasn’t yet swallowed the cold
that creeps in overnight,
to settle and sleep
on the worn linoleum floor
of the ranch house.
Mama bustles about, busy with breakfast.
Sowbelly sizzles in the cast iron skillet.
Dad fumbles with the top button of long johns,
reaches for the wool plaid Pendleton shirt,
and wonders aloud
where his other chopper mitten got to.
I huddle by the stove until
bacon grease pops and blisters my cheek.
Slanted sunlight sparkles on frost ferns
traced on east windows.
Proof enough, in my four-year-old mind
that my practical mother is mistaken
about fairies being make believe.
I study the delicate designs, lean closer,
breathe a hole to peer through,
and focus on the pump in our yard.
White whiskers dangle from its mouth
and the handle, rimed in frost,
reminds me of yesterday’s lesson.
I won’t put my tongue on it today.
c Lyn Messersmith
10/2012