Shelter and Storm

by Nicholas Schmidt

Heavy Cream

My mother banned mayonnaise, only miracle whip in our house.

And milk at every meal, because that’s what you did to protect your baby’s bones.

And chicken cooked until it was dust, to kill the germs.

And one puff of a cigarette meant my lungs would collapse.

She was protective, so she didn’t tell us about her first husband.

Or her bout with debt.

And I was safe, but scared.

But when I disobeyed, I also discovered.

The joy of a BLT with the good stuff on white bread, and a steak done raw and bloody.

And my pasta sauce is thick with heavy cream.

In the Crowd

I remember nights, with fist swirling, and out of tune guitars blasting.

Cheap forties, purchased by a bum for us, and a stolen pack of cigarettes.

Our ears rang for days on end.

As skin sags and hair grows, I remember the adventure.

The newness and the safety.

Rebellion under wraps.

Truly fighting costs more.

Huddling

My first night in the green mountains was a wet one.

The fat drops of rain amplified by the tin roof of the three-wall shelter sounded like a deluge.

Still, my socks were drying on the edge of the platform.

The air was muggy, the trail rocky, and the forest was green, almost breathing.

So much different from the dust and pine needles of my native California.

The night settled.

And out came fireflies.

Cutting the Wrong Wire

A kid swore me out today.

He had some of the best insults I’d ever heard.

The shape of my head, my beard, my unkempt hair, how I got red when uncomfortable.

I hid my amusement.

Later, back at my house, my soul collapsed.

So much flailing at the abyss. So much strife.

Replaying the incident, I see the wounds:

What fire rages in his head.

That hate in his spit.

BIO: Nicholas Schmidt is an educator and writer working in Chicago. He holds degrees from many places, some prestigious, some not so much. His writing interests include education, human development, and the humanistic experience of being.