Milk Money
By Barbara Buckley Ristine
Mornings, we marched to school,
no grownup hands to guide us
through the city’s perils.
We slid past open metal doors,
watched crates disappear into
cavernous holes in the sidewalk
that waited to swallow the
careless, the dreamers. Sometimes,
on a dare, we’d bounce
on the closed ones, just to see.
We carried tributes of coin,
ours to trade with teacher
for cardboard cartons
of cool white milk. Once, my
mother pinned the packet
to my heart, next to
my favorite handkerchief,
the one with the kittens and string.
At least it was my favorite
until then.
The coins jingled like sheep’s bells as my
mary-janed feet ran ahead of my shame.
That pin shouted to the world
here was a child not to be trusted
with anything of value.
I threw the packet in the gutter, and
told teacher it was lost (again).
Told mommy I didn’t like milk,
which became the truth.
I found it tasted bitter.
Barbara is originally from NY but she moved a lot before finally settling
in Reno, where she’s stayed for over twenty years. She’s embarked on her
third act as a student at UNR, studying creative writing. When she’s not
mindlessly staring at the Sierras, Barbara writes short stories, historical
fiction and the occasional poem.