Kristine O'Connell George

I am a careful marshmallow toaster, a patient marshmallow roaster, turning my stick oh-so-slowly, taking my time, checking often. This is art--- a time of serious reflection as my pillowed confection slowly reaches golden perfection. My brother grabs ‘em with grubby hands shoves ‘em on the stick burns ‘em to a crisp cools ‘em off flicks soot eats quick. I’m still turning my stick. He’s already eaten six.

I’m practicing my I-belong-here no-twig-snap no-leaf-rustle no-branch-crack see-all, know-all float-like-fog like-smoke pine-needle-soft forest walk. No one will know I’m coming. No one will know when I’m gone.

Red and blue plaid, pockets with buttons, my camping shirt is flannel, worn soft, pine smells, campfire, forest moss. I keep it hidden in my bottom drawer— where no one will find it and wash away my memories.