I'm Dawn—an Iowan by birth and writer by trade. I live in Indianapolis and work as a freelancer and defender of the Oxford comma. This blog is a collection of creative non-fiction about the people I love, the places I've lived, and the road trips I take. Still curious? Learn more here.
I can remember, when we lived in "The Yellow House," the times that my mother would go outside, into the snow and the cold, and break icicles off the eaves of the garage. She'd break them with gloved fingers, break them with a satisfying snap--the same sort of sound when you halve a carrot. When you step on a twig. When you crack an egg. She'd bring the icicles back into the house, to my brother and I. I was maybe four at the time. Perhaps a little older, perhaps a little younger. Regardless, I would climb onto the counter--the small bit of counter just to the left of the sink--and sit. Mom would wrap an icicle in a paper towel and hand it to me, who would greedily lick each melting drop. And it was cold and it was clean, and it was frivolous, and I would bang my heels against the cupboards beneath me, drumming, drumming, drumming.