Vol 7, Num 16 :: 2008.09.12 — 2008.09.26
in the spring
scares Dad half out of his chair when she yells through our open window, saying her son’s run up the phone bill again –talking to God-knows-who and –hey- come see my new trees. Bought them all six, just today. Planted too close, too early, the neighbors whisper they will die, but Betty smiles at the little evergreens, takes joy in what she can.
summertime
Round, yellow squash bodies fly from the garage next door: little wingless geese soaring on a string of profanities. Betty and Mark, fighting again. Zucchini rinds litter the pavement, their slick insides open to the heat of late summer. She tells us they haven’t had sex in six months, that she should have quit after two husbands.
autumn
Flagging my mom with a wave, Betty announces that her daughter’s had another abortion, then presents two giant bottles of mustard, can you believe I got these for two dollars? Took her son to church, said the little shit should at least learn to pray. Mom chokes on her iced tea.
Christmas
Soft arms of white pine fill the corner, top bent under Betty’s ceiling. Guests push against the opposite wall, holding plates away from six wet noses panting underfoot. My mom smiles at our neighbor, lays a hand on her arm. The room is heavy with the scent of cinnamon, and the silent knowledge that Betty’s lost another job and her daughter is pregnant again, lights blinking green and gold.
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