on the other side of the door

Her eyes are huge, whites
of a blizzard. I serve dinner on a door. Parents,
siblings, cousins arrive from all directions,

riding in on their horses, mules, tanks.
They shed their matted wool and fur,
leaning on the door with their elbows, last knuckles.

The air foams and froths,
beery spaces where conversation fizzes.
The men are ravenous, laugh too loudly.

The women rearrange the tableware.
The children press their foreheads to the door.
Steam is an engine of what can be, what cannot.

Somehow, we make room for more.
We grace our puny prayer. Platters are passed
around the door from hand to hand.

My niece’s eyes are too big for food.
Sitting in her father’s lap, she asks, “Why
do none of you speak of my dead mother?”

Fork tines toll. Our breath plumes
in slow motion. I reach for the icicle
in my heart, her trembling hand. On the other side

of the door is a pond frozen over.
Snow flies in large clumps. Twinkling lights
shine through white shells, glowing with snow.

My niece and I skate circles, snow splotching our
hair, cheeks, noses. “Your mother loved the snow,” I tell her.
My niece sticks out her tongue to taste what’s fleeting.

© Tori Grant Welhouse