Memories of ‘45

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In an early morning
late December ice storm,
I peed in the doctor's face
to salute his welcome slap.

Windows glistened ice-blue fractals,
jagged razor shapes and shadows,
wind-whipped branches shattered.
Inside; warm blankets,
milk-damp breasts and comfort.

Heard the doctor tell my mom:
"He's healthy, but small
and doesn't seem to know much yet.
Maybe in time."
She smiled and looked at me.
"I only want to hear him laugh."

My father bent and whispered,
through din of screaming men,
death camps and fire-bombs:
"Cotton candy, Radio Flyers,
Daisy B-B Guns."

I gripped a gold and purple heart,
tried to suck
the glossy medal on his chest,
heard their nervous laugh.
They all agreed;
"He'll know more- in time."