At the Electric Stove
What if no one besides my motherwants to be my mother—I don’t resent her for answeringthat she would not do it over.We were standing by the electric stove,over fried rice or spaghetti pancakes.Some things did not come easilybetween us. Not touch, no longerthe grip of her skirt tight in my fistclimbing the stairs into darknessafter …