Faulty Wiring

Varnish” I said aloud, rolling the word over my tongue as if we were new acquaintances.

“What’s that you said, Mom?”  My daughter, breezing through the kitchen, found me standing at the counter, gazing out the window.  She was gone before I could answer.

They were used to me by now, my family.  How long had it been since words, like leaves, have fallen from my memory?

“Is that even a word?” I asked the air.

My son-in-law peeped his head in.  “Do you mean vanish?  What are you trying to describe?”

Then he saw my hands making contact with the butcher block countertop.   “Oh, do you mean the finish on the wood?  That’s varnish.”

I bit my lip to conceal the frustration welling up.  “No.  I was looking at the tree outside this window, how the ice has formed a coating on its bare branches.”

“Like varnish!”  he exclaimed.  “That works.”

“Nature’s varnish,” I proclaimed, pleased with myself, creativity a sometimes bi-product of a faulty mind.

(This piece is written in response to The Daily Post prompt: varnish, and is semi-autobiographical.)