I am child of toboggan and of a family that played in snow
Dad chose our Connecticut house for the half acre yard,
its graded slope was perfect for tobogganing.
I am child of a mother who cut my snowsuit
from the warp and weft of my father’s WWII Marine uniform
Between her singer sewing machine fingers
magic happened.
She buttoned me up and wrapped a knitted red scarf
round and round my little bundled body
then, kissing each of my dinner-roll cheeks
she looked into my eyes and smiled.
I knew I was loved.
I am child of a family whose interlocked legs
made space for me at the front.
Tucked under the curling toboggan’s hood
nested in my sister’s lap within big brothers’ reach
I sucked and ducked gallons of snow dust
guided by parents’ voices: lean this way or lean that;
and the toboggan flew like a snow-Ferrari
until it tumbled at the bottom of the hill
dumping all of us
boots and mittens flailing
tears of laughter freezing on faces
my mother’s eyes shining, burning like a winter-hearth fire
reminding me Who I Am
before I forgot.
Decades of seasons and snow wove their tales
of forts and slushy meltdowns
until miles of death and years of living changed my view.
Today it grew cold and it snowed.
I grabbed my new yellow ergonomically designed snow shovel
and I worked all morning while flakes descended like long forgotten memories
until at last, I gazed with satisfaction at my newly cleared drive.
Exhaling clouds of frost, velvet roses feathered my cheeks with her warmth
I felt her hands bundling me up
and I saw her eyes gazing into mine
And I knew once more the love that glows against winter and cold
And I remembered
This is Who I Am.
