Graduation (For My Mother)
There's the number on the scale that used to move
with the ease of a feather in the breeze.
with the ease of a feather in the breeze.
Not to mention the increase
of young men behind grocery store registers
of young men behind grocery store registers
whose sweet, heavy-lidded eyes only meet with mine
long enough to ask “Paper or plastic?” When they add
“Ma'am” without any hint of irony
or Southern hospitality, I know I'm slipping
long enough to ask “Paper or plastic?” When they add
“Ma'am” without any hint of irony
or Southern hospitality, I know I'm slipping
into my mother's skin. I answer the phone
with her voice; her hands grind the coffee beans.
with her voice; her hands grind the coffee beans.
And who is this listening to NPR in the morning
while the fresh-faced girls in the neighborhood trudge toward school,
peonies hanging their heads under the weight of their own blossoming.
while the fresh-faced girls in the neighborhood trudge toward school,
peonies hanging their heads under the weight of their own blossoming.
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Author's Note
Lately, there are moments I look down and am shocked to see I now have my mother's hands.
I'm not sure about the ending. Feedback is welcome.
Other stories by Sarah McKinstry-Brown
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Very nice!
Good.
Sarah, I love the mood of this piece: thoughtful and quiet. Especially enjoy the surprising line, "I answer the phone/with her voice", and the notion of young men behind grocery store registers with "heavy-lidded eyes". Lovely images throughout. Thank you!