The Meadow 171 Candle Thin and Candle Tricky Susan Johnson Childhood a throw rug bathed in sneezes. Endless card games of war. Chased out, we marched through thigh-deep snow, not stopping until we crested the neighborhood hill. Not for the views but for the freedom of it: striding, always plowing ahead. Until radiation turned mother into a cloud. The sun blocked, we checked for portents scanning the palm of the sky. But what did we know? Light candle thin and candle tricky. The word mother embedded in the word chemotherapy but that only discerned later, after the gates had closed. Crossing enemy territory, we tried wiping the horizon clean. A worm in our heads kept steering us toward water so its larva could swim and breed more worms to enter our heads. To maintain course, we followed stonewalls like veins. But where was the heart of the matter? Off somewhere faintly beating. It’s not life but death that goes on, little huts of it offering little shelter. It’s where we thought the answers were hidden. But doubt continued to scupper the expedition. With no clear direction, we stumbled across scraggy fields always remembering to thank mother for the gift of two legs and arms so on clear nights we could paddle to the moon.
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