Oatmeal
Caron Andregg
Every time I smell oatmeal, I am back in Indiana,
In the winter, in the biting cold, where the snow
Drifts mountain high and it is always dark
Dark from short days, dark from the growling clouds
Dark from the endless swirl of blowing snow
Thick pads of it collected on the roof like thatch
When the combination of cold nights
And poor insulation turned the underside to ice
The whole thing avalanched in one long shroud
Across the porch and door and walled us in
And we were stranded in a box of brightness
Where the kitchen alcove overlooked the yard
An island of spice smells and reverberating voices
Incandescent light licked out across the ice
The only yellow thing in that vast blue fog
I was too young to understand it was the tile
Tile floor, tile countertops, and two long walls of glass
I always thought sound echoed off the light.
