Mary Jo Balistreri
Story from the Blue Ridges
for my uncle, Steve “Mac” McGuire, 1921-1974
Just before dawn, Steve carries a cuppa outside starting the day as usual on the worn porch stairs in the dark.The vast nothingness of his surroundings, where day comes as it will, pleases. Fog’s dampness saturates his skin, erasing the far mountains. Sipping the strong coffee, he notices a sharper smell of spruce in the heavy dew and the cherry trees just scenting into bloom. A whiff of rotting lumber and iron-baked boulders segues into a memory of Mother digging her garden. How hard to free the soil in that rock-strewn landscape, but her happiness made it worthwhile. He can almost see that rare smile playing across her face as she stands against the shed, proud of the gigantic sunflowers planted from seed.
As night loses its grip, chirping crickets alert him to time. Steve hurriedly carries the dregs inside, grabs a lunch pail, and starts the long trek down the hills. A light wind touches his almost bald head, while the sun attempts to burn off fog. Voices of songbirds accompany him, then fade away as he reaches the open maw of the coal mine, wondering, like always, if this is the day the canary stops singing.
miners lanterned hats pin prick patterns in the dark
About the Author
Mary Jo Balistreri has three published books of poetry and a chapbook. Even when “Jo” isn’t writing haiku she is thinking about it as it helps her to maintain a sense of gratitude and appreciation. She and her husband live in Duluth, Minnesota. Visit her at maryjobalistreripoet.com.