Warm Palms

I held a mug of green tea with extra lemon

that felt like a childhood.

Not mine, though

it was just a little different,

as if everything had been shifted slightly to the left.

There was a different catalogue of unofficial elementary gym class games.

One went by Alien Tag instead of Cavotta-Ball

and in the end the goal was to hit a dodgeball with a whiffle bat

instead of guarding your hula hoop from thieves.

I read some other book series about children hand-picked to fulfill

some destiny or mission or magical education

and the scented candle my mother would light for guests

smelled like roses instead of sandalwood.

The heat didn’t go out in the winter of 2011,

when my town was hit by the worst snowstorm I ever saw.

As I reached the bottom of my mug

and the lemon gave way to gritty clover honey clinging to the string,

I felt gratitude for these specifics which washed back over my tongue and flowed into

my cupped palms:

the rules of Cavotta-Ball,

and a smell only slightly similar to sandalwood

but earthy enough for us.

And that cold day spent by a fireplace with cocoa made on a camp stove, indoors.