Inside, lights flickering, she watched, and heard,  the
relentless storm lay vengeance on the wooded countryside.
Her mother, her father, her sisters two, her brothers three;
each of them, all of them, together in tow, were – somewhere.

Gritty she was, more resilient than most of fifteen years.
She wandered through both the boys’ and girls’ bedrooms.
Each had bunk beds, and a raised mattress for the eldest.
She touched each pillow with closed eyes while pretending
that her younger siblings were asking her to read to them.

She embraced the moment, then moved on to her parents’ retreat.
The welcoming, large four-poster with the burgundy bedspread
warmed her spirit and she bounced herself across it, once each
direction, as she always did when they were absent in the dark.
She caressed both pillows, giving each a hug before leaving.
At 84 Willow Road, at 7:39 PM, she settled into a kitchen chair.

Outside, fierce northeast winds rushed through the evergreens.
A swarm of snowflakes swirled furiously above the porch light.
Her family was way past due, and the young girl – well, she knew.
She made a peanut butter sandwich and opened a book of poems,
to page 56, where Frost told of woods on another snowy evening.

The phone had long since surrendered its dial tone to the fury.
Then came a knock on the door, and her name being called, loudly.
She froze, dreading the inevitable “Miss, there’s been an accident.”
Unlike the poet, they’d have no more miles to go before they slept.

But, the knock was her beloved uncle Ron’s; her family was safely
hunkered down for the night at his house in town. He had braved
the storm to “fetch her” in his Ford pickup while her Dad rested.

They gathered up the eight pillows. She grabbed the book of poems
and turned out the lights, then locked the door, at 84 Willow Road.

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