Snippets

By Diana Sigler

SNIPPETS: A piece of something; a fragment of information or news.

All of life is made of snippets.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664150324

Book preview

Sand Dunes

Mama! My dolly! I can’t find her.

There’s no time. The sand is coming!

I need her!

The mother grabs the small hand

as they plunge into the sandstorm.

Tiny grains pit their faces,

cake on the tear-stained face of the girl.

Her sobs go unheard in the screaming wind.

They flee their wooden shanty

built on open sands far from the sea.

The wind blows the silken, silent sand.

It creeps through the cracks around the windows.

Sifts through the crude planked roof.

Silently piles against the stove,

covers the bare floors,

deepens in drifts in the corners,

smothers the beds.

In time, all is buried.

Year after year

the dunes grow, shift and press inland,

devouring all in their path…

trees, roads, buildings.

Life. Gone.

Decades later, a vacationing family

stops to enjoy the beauty of the shifting sand.

Photos are taken.

A boy struggles to the ridge of a dune,

dragging a piece of cardboard.

From the summit he waves at his family below.

He plants himself on the cardboard,

knees drawn up,

hands clutching cardboard corners.

With a conquering yell, he pushes off,

flying down the smooth glistening dune,

laughing and whooping.

The cardboard jolts to a stop,

snagging on something.

The boy flies forward,

sprawling in the sand.

He sits up unhurt.

He pulls at the odd thing jutting from the sand.

It’s a doll.

A simple thing with a torn cloth body and a carved wooden head,

the features gone,

sanded away.

He studies the faded, tattered dress.

Weird, he says.

Worthless.

With the flick of his wrist

he flings it out onto the sand.

The relentless wind begins to blow.

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Gathering Pine Nuts

Puttering through the grocery store,

mind idling in neutral,

I spy a clear, cellophane bag

dangling from a metal hook.

Inside are tiny white nuggets.

I know these.

Pine nuts.

I pull the package into my palm

feeling its weight and suddenly…

I am six years old again,

inside the small pink house,

in the narrow room,

not much wider than a hallway.

Oh, but in that room…

wedged between the potato bin and the water heater,

is a tiny, crackly, paper bag

filled with smooth, brown pine nuts.

I carry the bag to the kitchen table.

My mother spreads out a towel

and finds the little, special hammer.

Like a sacred ritual of trust,

she hands it to me

and I deliver a whack to the first shell.

Inside lies the treasure.

Placing the waxy, white seed on my tongue

I slowly bite down

letting the rich, nutty flavor fill my mouth.

I push my nose into the bag

inhaling the dusty, woodsy smell.

The memories flood back,

golden, sunny Saturdays,

my Dad and I hiking

the dry scrubby hills of southern California

looking for pinion pines.

I was always the scout,

scrambling through the trees,

searching for fallen cones

lying in the pine needles.

On finding one, I’d whoop,

then swoop down on it.

Wedging my skinny fingers between the pine cone scales,

I’d pluck out the pine nuts nestled there

while Dad stood watching,

smiling his warm Dad smile.

******************

Now I stare at the cold, plastic bag

in the cold grocery store.

I slip it back onto its cold metal hook.

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Child Of Mine

He’s at the gate,

little boy with brown, sparkling eyes,

tanned skin.

A wide smile

Hi! he shouts, then scoots down the path to his Mom.

Soon he is back,

riding his two-wheeler round and round,

chest puffed out, tiny legs pumping…

full of pride and grins as he shows off.

Like butterflies flitting among nearby flowers,

he’s here and gone,

back and forth…

now clutching his rubber dinosaur,

now cuddling his grandparents.

Dear Serbian child of mine.

On TV I see a small boy’s body

gently rocking in lazy waves lapping at the shore.

His red sweatshirt is emblazoned with a

still-smiling Cooky Monster.

One tennis shoe is gone.

He wears yellow socks.

His dark hair is sea washed.

His eyes closed.

His hands lay open, like tiny starfish.

How long did they clutch his mother

before he was torn away by the sea?

Dear Syrian child of mine.

He’s waiting for me,

Little boy with brown, sparkling eyes,

tanned skin.

A wide smile.

.

Hi Grammy! he yells,

as he scoots down the sidewalk,

clutching his rubber dinosaur,

then circling round and round on his two-wheeler,

chest puffed out, little legs pumping.

Full of pride and grins

as he shows off.

Dear Grandson of mine.

All…all…dear children of mine.

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Puff

Nineteen, newly married, naïve.

I belt out