we’d ever seen. Her age, seventeen.
Learned the trade from her dad.
After hazing (nothing nasty),
we sort of normalized her. Sort of not.
Found reasons to be within sight of her for crown
molding as she was short and had to stretch — until
she called us creepy and we stopped. But, jeez,
hanging a door was like a ballet, strength and grace.
Not classic beauty, more stocky and square.
We gave her the tasks where perfect would count.
Because she was.

By end of summer we all treated her
like a kid sister. She brought Vivaldi
for the boom box to replace our twangy slop.
She chalked little flowers, hearts and dragonflies
in the rough opening before trimming the frame
so in demolition a century from now
somebody might find them.
Earned enough for first semester at college.
Promised she’d come back and visit.

Maybe she forgot.
Maybe she met some brooding poet.
We speak of her sometimes after all these years.
It’s like opening a wall,
finding a chalk dragonfly.


© by Joe Cottonwood.
Used here with the author’s permission.