This is the eighth installment of a ten part poetry/prose series I wrote a few months ago titled Hours. I wrote the series over the course of one night into the next morning as a project. Each individual part is titled according to the time at which I began writing the piece and makes for a kind of documentation of my thought process throughout the night. And after much editing, here it is.
Remember when TV had as many channels as our age? Remember PBS Kids? Arthur? That episode about the snow-day and how it captured childhood like a pretty butterfly in a jar? Remember D. W.’s snowball? You know, that perfect sphere of white placed in the freezer on a perfect blue plate?
Remember the episode it disappeared and they couldn’t figure out who took it?
I melted D. W.’s snowball.
I stole into her freezer seizing the priceless white sphere. A single moment of purity, clustered crystallized laughter of sweetest notes. A sample of preserved perfect wonder.
It glistened giggling in my palm, naïve and space bound.
It splattered, screaming splayed crystal shards, as I spit curses of seething cynicism. Stomping sky-diamonds that would shine no more.
Searing sentences, melting tear tracks, and shouting sobs.
I melted D. W.’s snowball because I melted my own.
Because I was told my snowball was silly.
Because I do what I’m told.