IN THE SHADOW
In the middle of the meadow
In the shadow of that towering spruce
Idling next to that cool, easy moving stream.
Can’t you see it?
That small log cabin with yellow curtains
Wavering in the window near the door?
There’s a spring garden out front with green sprouts
Just about ankle high; and there’s a sweet windchime
Barely sounding its greeting to the sprites in the meadow.
Surely you can see the two chairs out front,
Facing each other over a cold firepit.
They look comfy, each with an afghan draped over one arm
And a cushy, square pillow to lean on.
Oh, and did you catch that whiff of cornbread?
And what smells like spicy green chili? Mmm
Likely cooking in a cast iron Dutch oven on the woodburning stove.
That explains why the door is open; to let in some air to cool the kitchen.
Unbelievable! You refuse to see what is right in front of you!
It’s all right there, right where it has been since we planted that spruce
When it was only two feet high. Do you remember nothing?
How Mom crocheted an afghan a week in every color of the universe, and how we all finally had enough to warm us for infinity and beyond?
How Marie opened the cabin each spring, dusted, swept, set out the chairs, split the kindling
and started a fire in the stove on day one, then kept it going the whole time we were there?
And she started her chili and kept it on the back burner for anyone who wanted it on their
Breakfast eggs, or their mac & cheese, or over rice with grated cheese for dinner.
What do you mean, there is nothing there? You must be blind, c’mon! Give me your hand!
I’ll walk with you down the lane to the front door! I might even splash you into the creek just to wake you up to see where we are! C’mon!
Wait! Why is this door locked? Where have you taken me? Get me out of here! Stop! We were just in the meadow! You saw it! We were just there…just getting ready to have some chili and cornbread with Marie… please… Please!
04/11/2023 rJo Herman
Day 11 NaPoWriMo 2023 with a nod to dementia and the heartbreak of “reality”