Pocahontas
My mother covered the couch in Disney’s Pocahontas sheet pictorials when we were sick. She kept them due to tradition and colors, but I always found some spiritual forgiveness in the cartoon feathers pressing hard against my forehead while I slept. She stuck bread, sliced, toasted in a bowl of hot milk, and I’d watch the tiny grain pores absorb creamy discharge; seems more magical before puberty. Cinnamon and sugar on top and that teaspoon with Victorian carvings at the fingertips was the only grafitti I knew. The spoon was a religious utensil, holding no real value. It would delight in palms and breath, like Jesus, and never change its metal sheath. It was the tiniest portable pool on earth, the carrier of food and nutrition, the armor of medicines and broth. Welcome to the mindset of a seven year old girl, watching I Love Lucy and admiring her silverware.
