The aroma of maple burning came sweet to me with unexpected warmth one subzero December night. By habit, I rolled from bed at 2 a.m., descended the stairs to check the woodstove, found the entire living-room floor ablaze. The children slept upstairs; I raced back, woke them, said “There’s no time, we have to get out.” With the fire between us and the usual door, we struggled at the kitchen door. Ice blocked it. A long minute later, recalling “break a window,” I smashed the glass of the door, somersaulted through, and reached back for each pair of small hands.
Beth Kanell lives in northeastern Vermont among rivers, rocks, and a lot of writers. Her poems and stories seek comfortable seats in small, well-lit places. bethkanell.blogspot.com Facebook: BethKanellbooks