Flint Hill 1949

Crimson from the evening sun threatens the mountain
rushes through vermilion curtains and settles warm
upon the cold steel of my old Singer.

From deep in the slumber of gray oaks
comes a pleading cry.
It is repeated and repeated again.

Do you remember that day
walking home past the road to Eagle Mountain
late afternoon sun blasting, slanted through white birches
our long shadows dancing
and third grade Readers nipping at our heels
from the ends of tattered leather straps?

Remember Billy, sneaking up behind us
his face grinning, sly and merciless
as he pushed us both giggling into a bank of snow?

You nod. I pull the black thread
through the slender needle
sharp as memories
tying a knot at one end.

Remember how Billy's sister glared at him
with those steel green eyes of hers
as cold snow melted down our warm necks?
How he pulled me up by the strap on back of my woolen coat
tearing loose one of the wooden buttons?

Was it Amelia who told us how their father
had taken Billy's hand
had plunged it trembling into the punishing flames
of the blazing wood stove?
How his desperate cries had ravaged the house
piercing deep into the stillness of the mountain?

I push the throbbing needle through scarlet velvet
as the dying sun buries itself somewhere in the mountain.
You slowly close the window above my sewing basket
and settle in the chair beside me.

We listen for the muffled cry from the slumbering gray oaks
as I plunge the sharp needle deep into button and fabric
fastening them in their place forever.

First Place Category 4
FSPA Annual Contest 1993