Lashes and Wings

Your mom spies her Thomas Kincade print, suspicious of the bubblegum pink tree – how naive she once was to sit underneath it, to follow the creek past the bend.

Your mom drives to the grocery and stays in the parking lot for seven minutes after she turns off the ignition. She lowers her head and feels a thick slow pulse in the tip of her forehead. A fly buzzes inside the car.

Your mom she was young. She made out with a boy named Stu who drove her to a place overlooking the town – only the town was small, so the lights at night were sparse and dim. Stu told your mom she was pretty.

Your mom would have liked to be beautiful but pretty was enough. Your mom doesn't marry Stu but marries your father. Your father is not part of this story.

Your mom gets out of the car and enters the grocery. The content inside gives her vertigo and she tries to blink it off. A customer service representative asks "can I help you ma'am?" Your mom tries to blink him away. Her eyes feel tugged by her optic nerves.

Your mom is back in her car with pot roast in her lap. She places her forehead on the backs of her hands which are grabbing the steering wheel. She accidentally honks the horn. A young mom holding hands with her son walk past the car and stare. Your mom thinks of her son and how they never hold hands anymore.

Your mom's son comes home and asks if the pot roast is ready. She says it's for the church potluck tomorrow. He says those ladies are sad and your mom knows he's talking about her. The son is upset and goes to his room with a bag of chips. Your mom looks at his back as he climbs the stairs and imagines him climbing forever and disappearing.

Your mom has this reoccuring dream of two pieces of skin flapping together in the sky, like a human bird made with hands and no bones. The bird has no body so it is not a bird, just a limp handshake. The feet of the human making the bird are tiptoeing to make the bird fly higher but he is stuck. He left your mom with her son and every atom in the world. Your mom wakes up.

Your mom opens the lid and smells the pot roast. She adds marjoram, salt, and more broth. She closes the lid and the air inside her collapses to the floor. From her angle, the kitchen ceiling looks like the floor. Your mom's son comes down and says "Jesus mom."

Your mom's eyes are wet red and she asks you to lie down with her. You are angry but you lie down anyway. The linoleum kitchen floor feels like a tight loveless skin. There is no silence until every buzzing fly dies. Forgiveness is a baby which needs to be fed.

Your father is not a good man but you are trying to be. He lives only four blocks away, four little insults. You look over at your mom and say "please don't fall like that again." Your mom smiles and the saline watery sheen over her eyes turns you into a million kaleidoscopic pieces.

Your mom takes your hand and brings it to her heart. You can feel her heartbeat, a soft often thing.