Beloved

It occurred to me while shoveling the first snow of this winter:

I am child of toboggan and of a family that played in snow

a family whose Dad chose the Connecticut house

just because the yard was a perfect slope for tobogganing.

I am child of a mother whose snowsuit creations

were cut from my father’s Marine uniform,

magic happened when her singer sewing machine fingers,

buttoned me up and wrapped a knitted red scarf

round and round my little bundled body,

and kissing each of my dinner-roll cheeks,

she looked into my eyes and smiled…

and I knew I was loved.

I am child of a family whose interlocked legs

made space for me under the curling wood

the front place, deep inside

my sister’s lap and brothers’ reach

guided by parents’ calls to lean this way or that;

and the toboggan flew like a snow-Ferrari

and tumbled at the bottom of the hill,

dumping all of us, boots and mittens flailing,

tears of laughter frozen on our faces

and the memory of my mother’s shining eyes

burning like a winter-hearth fire,

reminding me Who I Am.

Decades of snows later, I stand by the shovel,

satisfied at my hard-work cleared drive,

feeling the warmth in my cheeks

glowing against the cold.

This is Who I Am.

Finally, I remember.

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