At the Electric Stove

What if no one besides my mother
wants to be my mother—
I don’t resent her for answering

that she would not do it over.
We were standing by the electric stove,
over fried rice or spaghetti pancakes.

Some things did not come easily
between us. Not touch, no longer
the grip of her skirt tight in my fist

climbing the stairs into darkness
after I’d read something scary, or
suddenly the night too big & slack

to face alone. I loved to listen to her
part of the phone calls, the whole
lambent world of women talking.

She was often annoyed that her best friend
Pam served dinner late. We arrived
on time & hungry. I asked her why not

eat a snack. She wanted Pam to keep
her word. The truth was important
to her. She needed to understand,

another friend tells me, more
than she wanted to be right.
I don’t know how to reconcile
 
those stories. I was too young
to understand her. I don’t know
if she ever forgave Pam for calling

the ambulance when I was gone
& she slipped into a coma, did not
answer Pam’s calls. She was angry

that long summer enthroned
in the dining room, hoisted
like a shipping container

into a wheelchair when she had energy
to travel to the living room.
My aunt rolled her to her side to wipe her.

My mother told her friends
she wanted an easier death. I always
wanted her to talk to me like that.

Every now & then, she did.

Read more from Issue 22.2.