As she called on me to read
aloud, a memory swirled warm
like a summer breeze across the deep
Atlantic: rocking on a black-and-white
checked chair by a gas fireplace
where my Mom opened Robert
Frost and we memorized
poems together. She sat
close to the flames and melted
a hole in her navy-blue
bathrobe. My red-haired
brother stuck silly-putty
between the bricks of the fireplace
and Mom made him scrub
it clean with a toothbrush.
As we practiced the lines,
the baby slept and the toddler
played with bright board books
on the floor and we all ate
frozen Michigan blueberries
until our lips stained purple
and we stuck out our tongues.
Noel Vanderbilt