Counterpane

With a single word,
my mother elevated a fold of fabric
into the realm of significance,
of named things.

The only counter
I had ever encountered
was in the kitchen.
My only pain
had been a child’s boo-boos.

That such mysteries lurked
between my bed covers
was as quietly miraculous as the fact
that such simplicity could be worthy
of its own incantation.

A pane of glass in my mind
tilted slightly,
the pain of confusion
countered by the awe of meaning,
and all of it folded gently,
fascinatingly,
back down
to the everyday,
waiting patiently
for the everynight.

Through a word
I did not understand,
in that moment
I caught a glimpse
of Language.