I remember my mother’s cotton dress,
red and gray plaid carefully protected
by a white apron.
I can’t say I felt awe watching her cook
because there was too often more
fear than wonder in that tiny kitchen.
Mama was a daughter of poverty,
child of an alcoholic, and filled with
bitter she could never uproot.
My mother was rarely tender.
She held a legacy of rage in her spirit
I was too young to understand.
Anger came much like the kettles
she boiled, slow bubbles rising from fire
until it spilled from her lips into my ears.
Perhaps being the middle child, she saw
too much of herself and my father in me.
I had my father’s face and bony, knocked knees
like hers that couldn’t outrun their arguments.
There were never love letters in bright envelopes
or Sunday hugs to warm me when rain drummed
droplets down the window in November.
So often my memories travel the threads of Mama’s
red and gray plaid dress wishing I could once again
be a little girl and know the steam rising from a dish
of cinnamon apples is her saying, “I love you.”
©Susie Clevenger 2024
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