I am done counting presents and crawl from behind the flashing tree. This year it sits in the corner in place of Dad’s recliner. He has gone out again to check on the cow, calving early. Mom faces the stove, her hands wrapped behind her back, twisting the red ties of an apron. She shifts it straight. On Christmas Day there is an expansion of time. It relaxes and opens, so putting on an apron—the time it takes her— is no worry. Other days, time is double its value and spent as quickly as it's gained, leaving her openly exposed.
Each time Sara Bednark puts pen to paper, the corn fields and Holsteins of Central Minnesota, where she was raised, emerge.