Lessons

A first public effort

My mother never taught me that she knew the words 'I love you'.  That hugs are made for children.  That the reason she snuck downstairs to vomit in the half bath next to my bedroom was cancer. 

I remember jonquils, violets, johnny-jump-ups in the spring, being fascinated by her scab-less knees, ducking next to the window unit air-conditioner to eat the forbidden sour grass.  We learned to fly kites, balsa wood, newspaper, and elmer's glue, while rollerskating down Cranberry South in metal clip-ons.  "Step on a crack, break your mother's back".

My mother did teach me to stare off into the middle distance without seeing, how to read Dr. Seuss cuddled up next to her on the couch, how to make chocolate pudding from a box, how to sweep the kitchen floor with the adult sized straw broom.  That the stains on the back of my neck and left knee are beauty marks.  That watching soap operas while she ironed sheets and dad's shorts was a solitary activity.  That your face will freeze like that.  That at nine years old, feeding the squirrels in the hospital courtyard, you cannot possibly understand that your mother is dying.

Author's Note

Thoughts, anyone?