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is okay and the roads are clear,
I can drive down there. If not,
we can figure out something.”
We leave it there, and it isn’t
until after I hang up that I realize
I didn’t even ask about Hunter.
I Sit at the Kitchen Table
Sketching Hunter from a recent photo.
Every now and then I look up to watch
the snow. I’m lost in a silvery view
when a little hand taps my shoulder.
Whatcha doin’? asks Devon.
Who’s that? referring to the portrait
becoming flesh on my sketch pad.
The girls don’t know about Hunter,
and I don’t want them to know
I left my child in my shadow.
“That’s Hunter. Isn’t he cute?”
Uh-huh. Will you draw my picture
too? Self-absorbed, but what can
you expect from a six-year-old?
“Sure. But how about if I make
you breakfast first? What do you
like?” I expect a simple answer
like cereal or cinnamon toast.
Bacon and eggs and pancakes.
Mommy used to cook those.
Can you? Some sort of a challenge?
“Of course I can cook them,
and you can help, if we have
