Sixteen months old

standing on the couch, chin almost

touching the windowsill

looking out into the white, white world

for Daddy.

Mommy talking on the curly-corded phone:

Blizzard, two feet deep

first time in fifty years

Daddy walking five miles in the cold

to feed cattle at the farm.

She worries in hushed tones

to protect me, but

I think about him

lost and frozen

forever.

I stand on tiptoes

sinking into cushions

still trying to see him:

a speck far away

in the bleak whiteness.

For the first time

I am heartsick

and fearful.