By Nicole Collins Starsinic

Two years after she moved out (abruptly)
I wipe the cutting board clean,
crumbs falling into a clump in my hand,
and I am startled into remembering her at nine
    energy humming from her restless limbs,
    dusty boots swinging from the counter,
as she followed me from room to room
settling in the kitchen to watch me chop and slice.

And sometimes
    if the light from the window fell
    just so upon the counter
and if the week at her mom's
hadn't turned her completely
    against me
she'd beg me to tell her
    just one more story...

And because I'd learned to hoard the crumbs
others had the luxury to discard
I'd take the moment as proof
    (trying not to be too greedy)
that all this was not in vain.

How every story began
    Once there was a girl named...