Sestina Memoir

From the mantle shelf, the book was chosen lovingly by the mother. She turned then toward her daughter, inviting her to sit by the fire and listen to poems of the seasons, at this time of cold, snow, ice—of winter.

Soon, the words reminded of a long ago winter when others sat and marveled over a book, this book, the only one twas valued, about the seasons. It told of monthly tasks, that mothers were to perform as their duty. The fire blazed, illuminating the face of the daughter.

“Mother, explain this to me,” said the daughter. “We’ve often sat the long evenings of winter talking and sewing, telling our stories by the fire. Why is it that this time you remember that book?” “Because you are almost a woman,” replied the mother. “And I was told I would know the right seasons

to guide my life, my family. Those seasons of growing to young womanhood, my daughter are what I’ve left to give you as your mother.” The young woman shivered, for it was full winter. She averted her eyes from the book, to watch the embers glow in the fire.

Then in her body raged a new kind of fire one that would take fuel from all the seasons. And the things shown pictured in the book were now asked after in detail by the daughter because she did know that it was already winter, and she desired answers from her mother.

“Yes, my dear, I have your answers,” said her mother. “If you’ll just throw more logs upon the fire and keep from me the sorrow of winter I’ll share with you the secrets of the seasons. First the spring, when you were my little daughter. See, look here, at pictures in the book.”

They rambled on to winter, last of seasons, then the mother turned and kissed her lovely daughter, said goodnight, put out the fire, and closed the book.