Mom’s Memories of Winter
I get emails from my mother, both poems, stories and the random piece that forces me to tell her there is a “retirement center” with her name on it.
“I remember my dad every winter morning and night going down into the basement and shoveling the coal into what I thought at the time looked like a black octopus monster living in our basement. The orange color of the fire burning in the bowels of houses was matched only by the morning susrise. Perhaps the fire was the eye of the monster. It was splendid and the steady heat coming upstairs through the downstairs register found the ceiling register showing the heat where to go. It drifted like swirling smoke into the upstairs bedrooms melting the snow that had squeezed through the cracks between the windows and sprinkled the top edge of our beds. Mom rolled big heavy woolen quilts grandma had made and built a wall around our heads for warmth. It was hard to crawl out into the well settled cold and get dressed for school. Our legs felt the same chill as we walked, books in hand the cement snow covered sidewalks. My dad liked winters pink cheeked children. There was no house that we passed that did not know us. We were young safe and happy. These were the days my friend I thought they would never end. Too bad.”