We head down the street to town—
Papa striding and I with quick, short steps
so I don’t slip and crack my head open,
which is Mama’s biggest fear.
Everything is white and black and gray
and slush.
Except for the sky, which is . . . sky blue . . . and alive
with sunlight and snow rainbows.
We walk past a lawyer’s office, a barbershop,
the Hillsborough Savings Bank, and a drugstore,
where I see toys and a soda fountain
through the frosted window.
Somewhere, a shovel scrapes cement.
We pass—
A round woman
in a gray coat with big buttons that look like
mine
and a plaid scarf over her mouth.
She carries a grocery bag
and wipes her eyes with a tissue.
A boy in a blue parka with the hood string pulled so tight
his face is a thumb,
and mittens pinned to his cuffs.
A college girl in a long skirt made out of
jeans
and a short, red sweater.
Her hair bounces around her shoulders as
she walks.
Each one stares at us until we get close
and then they look away.
Papa says, “Hello,”
and gives a little nod.
Round woman nods back
and clutches her grocery bag.
Boy backs up to a signpost
and twists around it as we pass
to stare.
College girl just keeps on walking,
as if she doesn’t see us.
As if she didn’t hear
my gentle dad’s hello.