We are skinning chicken in my mother's kitchen, sticky wet in July. The blade flashes along the pale slick of breast, rends the first fat in a stream of blood down my arm. Skin slips through my fingers. She says Papa rode the buggy on the rail down to the hole.
Skinny sinews slide through baubles of grease.
I cut my slippery hand again, ask her about the lantern light, but she tells me about candles, taller than she was at twelve, circling her young mother's coffin and the Christmas tree planted in sawdust. Wincing back tears, she scoops the last glob into a baggie. Permission is given to copy any article provided credit is given and the copies are not intended for resale. We remember skinning chicken.