Hailstones
Angie Mason
He would collect them
during tornado season,
some small as teeth or
large as a child’s fist.
Each storm catalogued
in a plastic bag,
labeled by date, stacked
chronologically,
a frozen menagerie
in his deep freeze.
Each visit was ritual,
I would pour myself
a Coke and he would
remove one from
his collection. Peel off
a loose strand of grass,
rinse, then release it in my cup
as a peace offering.
I’d drink the soda before
the wild ice had a chance
to melt, before I had a chance
to accept his apology.
