Shersti
By Christine Lee

Sunday, for me, means sleeping in even though it brings with it a certain amount of guilt; which I combat by telling myself, "You've earned it." Next on my agenda, the consumption of light fluffy pancakes smothered in maple syrup and topped with sliced strawberries.  This is what I love about Sunday mornings.  

After dishes are done I stretch out on the sofa and crack open a book. My calico perches herself on the sofa back and we make eyes at each other. The next thing I remember is waking with a start. Someone is at my door. Peeking through the peephole, I recognize Shersti. She's holding a star shaped container with generously frosted cupcakes inside.  

I immediately open the door, "Hi, come on in."

"Happy birthday, "she said, while handing me the cupcakes and a picture frame. We sit down and I offer her a cupcake. Then I inspect the gold colored frame. There's a poem inside titled The Writer, Shersti's initials appear at the bottom of the page.  

"Did you write this?"   

"Yeah, it s nothing much."

"Do you mind if I read it aloud?"

"Go ahead."

When finished, I fear my sight reading has not done justice to her rhyming scheme. Looking up to meet her eyes I say, "No one has ever given me a poem they wrote themselves; you're so thoughtful."

("Memor" Workshop)