the ice box

I remember my
mother
chipping ice out
of the ice
box when it had become
white and frozen
inside
not unlike the photos
I would see
in the national geographic
magazine
of the polar caps.
she'd pull the red stool
to where she could
reach
the top section
then begin to chisel
away
at the thick walls
of frosted ice.
it took hours as
we watched her
with our needs.
getting towels
to set at her feet,
catching the dripping
water.
she was quiet while she
worked.
her head inside the cold
square,
it was almost as if she
had left,
gone somewhere without us.