Hot Chocolate Made with Melted Aeros and Milk
Tiger Mama wears bobby socks
and sneakers even in the snow.
White mountains along the sides of
the roads delight the children and
we, like the others, scale the Alps.
She scans the horizon. A boy
leaps into view, topples his prey.
Tiger Mama sprints, springs, her breath
in short, angry puffs. See that girl?
How dare you. She yanks his parka,
shoves fistfuls of snow down the front.
We’re not sure if she was waiting
for a moment like this. Earning
her stripes, we’d tell her, years later.
We’re not perfect. We didn’t hear
exactly what she said. We can’t
see his face – surely one of those
Italian toughs from Wilson
Avenue. Surely, but still. He’ll
get papa’s belt when he gets home.
We think we should remember that.
We want more than what was. We see
the pendulous hang of clouds, Group
of Seven snow in every
colour but white, Tiger Mama's
sneakers, chocolate bars melting
into mugs of hot milk in the
kitchen as darkness falls at five.
“Hard to believe,” says Mr. “That
this mama tiger of yours had
any sort of gumption. Are you
sure this happened?” We stir melted
chocolate into the milk and
sip. “I said, are you sure? F**k, I
hate it when it gets dark at five.”
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