Frostbite

She was from Minnesota,

came from no-nonsense,

tall, blonde, Lutheran stock.

If she wasn’t at work,

she invented some type of chore.

Every night when she slipped

under her bedcovers,

she was satisfied with a job well done,

mentally cataloguing the next day’s tasks,

before she descended to a dreamless sleep.

So she didn’t understand

my laziness on a Saturday morning,

my avalanche of clutter,

the snowdrift of white cat hair

on my broken-down couch,

the one I got for free in college,

my ice cream for breakfast,

old Valentine’s Day cards

stuffed in books I bought but never read.

She sat stiffly in my armchair

when she came over for pizza and a movie,

popped up excitedly when she thought

enough time had passed

and she could gracefully retire.

Better to visit her;

she was much more in her element

in her pristine home.

If I set a glass of wine

on her wooden coffee table,

she would shoot me a frosty glare,

remember who I was,

then the glacier would melt

just a little,

and I would scramble

to find a coaster.

Her fingers were long and bony

and always, always cold.