I have a kettle from mother that whistles
like a distant train. It is a low, sweet song for
low, sweet drinks on nights when the
darkness starts to seep between the gaps in
my expanding ribs. Long, curling tones
warble past the whispers of my lineage,
the steady beat of mysteries that my
grandfather left thrumming in my pulse.
Low, sweet cocoa, ripped and poured and
stirred into a tall mug—a small token of the
most wonderful gift my sister has ever shared
with me. Nestled beneath the warm, soft
bellies of my warm, soft dogs while the low,
sweet rumble of my father's humor settles into
my heart, heats the shadows with the gentle
spark of laughter and reminds that I am
happy to be alive.