I hear wind chimes one night,
and I remind myself:
It’s impossible;
don’t be a foolish little girl.
I turn into my
pillow, finding it
already wet with tears.
Impossible.

Father would
tap the barrel of his
hunting rifle against
Mum’s chimes,
making them sing
softly.
Then I would
run into his tree trunk
arms,
and he would
swing me into his shoulder.

Impossible.
Foolish girl.

I waited every evening,
after supper,
for that chime.
Then we would roll
on the hardwood
and laugh
till our bellies
hurt.
Mum would get onto
us, but hide
her smile behind
her knitting.

Don’t be foolish,
little girl.

Then there was
the beast,
that stalked the sheep
and scared
the children into
eating their vegetables.
Father promised to
make me a fine jacket
from it’s pelt.
“A coat so nice,”
he’d say,
“it would make
the Queen of England jealous!”

Impossible,
foolish girl.

That night,
the chimes never sang.
Mum cried,
and sent me to bed.
No desert.
I stayed up all night,
waiting,
praying,
for
one
chime.
The next morning,
they brought father home
in a box.

Foolish girl.

Summer bled into
fall, and then
winter bit.

Impossible.

I hear wind chimes one night,
and I remind myself:
It’s impossible;
don’t be a foolish little girl.

Mum threw them away.