two white boots

 two gleaming white boots

ready for toddler’s exploration

of the consistencies of mud

material things

Material Things

            Warm and soft, caressing my shoulders. Mom was wrapping the fluffy beach towel around my shaking, four-year-old frame. I’d again stayed playing in Lake Erie’s chill water until my skin was wrinkled, and then, knowing better, sat in the shade of the elm inventing adventures for the twig men I’d found among the rocks of Kelley Island’s sandless shore.

            “You should have come in long ago,” Mom scolded with a smile.

            “I know, Mom.” I did know. I’d even thought about it when my teeth started to chatter, but the stories those bits of wood were drawing from me were too fascinating to be interrupted by discomfort I barely felt until the trembling and shaking made me run to the cottage. I knew I’d be greeted by terrycloth baked in sunshine on the clothesline strung from the back porch to the corner of the outhouse.

            My shoulders snuggled in fluffed warmth, the rest of me could drip until all of me, too, was baked in sunlight, recovery, acceptance, security. The texture of that towel told me I was loved.   

red rock canyon

red rock canyon, nevada

 wild burro nibbling on scant gray-green

among unkempt cacti

in front of layered mountains, tumble-textured rises

and calico hills vibrant with orange, beige

gypsum white, scab-blood, iron red

grizzled brown, dotted green

and haunted by startling, deep-shadow black

 mj