Dante Di Stefano

I was cold and leaned against the big oak tree as if it were my mother wearing a rough apron of bark, her upraised arms warning of danger. Through those boughs and leaves I saw dark patches of sky. I thought a brooding witch waited to catch me up from under branches and take me, careening on her broom, to her home in the jaundiced moon. I looked to the roof of mom and dad's house and wondered if the paisley couch patterns would change during the day. My brother peeked from a window and waved. When the bus came, I pawed away from the trunk, fumbled, and took my first step toward not returning.