By E. L. Blizzard
This splinter makes my finger ache, sending me to Arkansas. Running round a pond, screaming, after a sliver jams in my pipsqueak palm so deep only a speck is seen. Mama wants to pull it. Grandpa saves me. “She’ll survive. Leave her be,” he mumbles, pulling me onto his thin lap, letting me slurp coffee from his saucer and wolf Grandma’s coconut cake. My rescuer would soon depart. What’s left is a shadow by my life line, a redolent nostalgia of sweat from his long-lost cap, and my affection for saucer coffee.
for the hearth
ancient summers gone
E. L. Blizzard writes for self-care and connection.