Old wooden chair waits on splintered porch boards with the roof slouched like Mother’s hand shading her eyes from the afternoon sun. A stray cat curls up on the sun-bleached seat until an autumn leaf twitches its fur in settlement. The cat leaps through a kicked-out hole where light-reflecting eyes stare in goose-bump shiver while morning sparkles a blanket of snow cushioning the chair seat when nightfall freezes a drip’s expectation of dripping delayed until morning when sun thaws a slender thread between icicle and drip, and drop occurs. Wooden chair waits… a mother, a lighthouse mother, lighting up when her child returns.