The Smell of Cool

It's the smell of cool on a hot, bright day,
tangled up with dirt and rust,
fresh-mown grass.

Gravel slides softly under my feet,
I shift my weight on the tiny pebbles,
catch a few between my toes.

The little wood door under the house leads to Dad,
working in a space all his own, quiet order.

Wanna help? he says. And of course, I do.

Funny little room with no floor and few walls,
a door not much bigger than me.
Nails line every board, a tool hangs from every nail.

I hear the story again about how my big sister Sandy
Fell through that window before the cabin was even finished,
when she was still just a baby, scared everyone.

I sort some boards into piles for Dad - skinny ones, and long ones.
I hang up a couple of hammers,
and I feel important.

When I'm done I sift the cool gravel floor between my fingers,
rake the small smooth stones into patterns,
this way, and that.

I get to stay a bit longer while Dad works,
happy in the cool and quiet,
in our little hole in the ground.

©2019 Donna Jo Wallace
04-23-19