Later, when the kids come home, I am still whittling. Tiny wisps of wood, as small as the iciest snowflakes fall on the brown paper covering my knees. One of the progeny sits painting, another is drawing, the third is face-timing their friend. I overhear “Mom is carving wooden spoons, so she’ll have a useful skill after civilization collapses.” The spoon finds shape under a blade. Freckled burrs protrude through white wood. A short body with a long face, like me. My spoon.
