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.

 

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Hailstones Copyright © 2018 by Angie Mason is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.

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