It was a simple kitchen table conversation.
The kind of discourse that usually entails detailed descriptions of
yet another cousin,
uncle,
neighbor who’d fallen slave to the little white pill
that stole its name from a facial cleansing pad
and swallowed a legion of souls.
She says,
“I ran into so-and-so, the box-dyed blonde,
at K-Mart Saturday.
You know, the one who played softball?”
I think,
The one who sucked off seven boys in Tyler’s basement Sophomore year?
“She’s pregnant.”
For the first time in a month I selfishly thank God
and Birth Control
as I stroke my empty stomach, dreaming of
a future that reeks of possibility instead of baby shit.
My mother swallows a second cup of coffee in one sip.
She says,
“We’re drowning in debt and I just don’t know what to do,”
Followed by,
“Your father wants to shoot himself,”
and I shudder because this house is laden with
guns and unhappiness.
Thick tears cloud her cataracts as she surveys the
beige furniture and newly finished floors with
unfailing devotion.
A sixteen-year-old bride who’d contented her mind
with fancy dining sets and neutral carpeting
became a fifty-two-year-old housewife who
might soon become
A wife without a house.
She says,
“I just want to sell that fucking thing,”
gesturing toward the window where a pile of tin that reads
JEEP
sits in our drive.
Four letters that fueled our family,
paid for the linoleum and lone vacation to Key West,
before wearing thin just as I entered college.
Four letters that stained my father’s heart with nicotine and Jack,
before rusting over the moment he neared retirement.
Four letters
that
mean
Shit.
It’s my sister’s birthday.
Mom fumbles with a card from the Dollar Store as she
swallows her third cup of coffee and dries her oil-slicked eyes.
She says,
“Sarah. Maeleigh. Lindsey, I mean,”
spewing out a list of names that are almost never mine.
I answer to all three.
“How do you spell ‘Mommy’?”
My stomach churns as I carefully pronounce each letter
while she signs her favorite phrase.
Then I scribble a promise inside my skull for safe-keeping:
I will do something.
I will not stand by and let this crippled family rust.
I will write for Her.
I've missed you and your pretty poetry! Except this wasn't pretty... very gritty. I pretty much loved it and its dirtiness. Lovely stuff!
