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She sat waiting by the glowing fire
While I, the resident child,
Swirling and swishing in my new skirt
Sashayed around, admiring its floof and flare.
The mantle’s cool, white marble contrasted
With the smoking orange pyre it contained
And as I skirted around Grandmamma’s seat
I felt its scorching hand clap my face.
Fear and flames danced in me
My mind’s eye saw my skirt as an inferno
My hair blazing with flames—then
A different hand pulled me away.
Her hand matched in warmth and delicacy
A flickering candle flame
That guided me from my fears
and led me through the furnace of thoughts
to her more welcoming warmth
Her lap was my pillow as I sat
On the cold, faux wood floor.
There we sat,
and sat,
and sat.
Her clothes were feathery wisps of cirrus
Her hair, the silver cumulus of morning,
Draped with golds and reds.
But her face is the fickle cloud;
First this, then that, then nothing
Changing every time I look back
To when we shared that simple peace
And the only things I could sense were
The chill where my legs touched the floor
and Shalimar mingling with upholstery.
© Circa 2024 Christina Heisler
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