i scrunch my face, punch tiny

fists into sleeves that endlessly
balloon; mama stops me at the door with
the boots i tried to shirk; more stuffing
and i’m off with a baking pan. off into

precious white, toddling down an aisle of
asphalt; i’m off with a shout, my
mother and a baking pan behind. and i

rocket

down the white on a metal sheet, and i

scream my laughter back up the hill. “mama,

it’s cold!” and pick up, and dart up, and

down again, my face red enough to

melt the snow; and my mama’s just

smiling,

watching me shriek and fall and rise

again; and i go down and down and down and

always down; trees and children and sleds

and lost mittens laugh as we collide and i never

will forget my mama’s face when i

finally got to push

her down the hill
on my baking pan

03/16/2004

Posted on 03/17/2004
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