fueling humankind's survival for thousands of years,
proves a tenuous task for me to learn
in the propane age of first-world America on the grid.
Husband patiently instructs me again
how to construct the logs inside our new wood stove
then to light the kindling, then to wait for smaller logs to catch—
and my insecurity jumps out to burn him
before he has a chance to shut the grate.
Show me a new word once and I'll never forget the spelling,
give me a Wikipedia page on the extraction process for opium poppies
and I'll eloquently sum it up a month later—
but teach me to change a bike tire,
show me how to reignite the pilot light on the hot water heater,
instruct me on amping a djembe with a microphone on a well-labeled stage—
and I will scramble the order, miss the details, and pout
when you slowly show me again three more times.
I contend that I am not learning-challenged,
I am only procedurally-challenged— but I cringe
at the thought of taking notes and referring back to them,
the nerdy academic again,
to simply warm the basement on a chilly winter evening,
well-educated pride heating my cheeks.
I can only hold my biting tongue
when a coworker asks again how to spell "pterygium"
to type it into the diagnosis search box,
since I know the pronunciation omits the starting "p"—
and say a silent thanks for my patient partner for holding his
when I ask for help yet again
to stoke that darn wood stove.
—Ellen H.
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