Mother

There used to be someone to call. Not that I wanted to; it was a chore, a duty. I’d hold the phone to my ear and stir a pot. I’d walk the cat and pluck dead leaves from the bay tree. I’d handle my Facebook likes. Scrolling, scrolling, while I made hmming sounds into the receiver. This is a lie. The sounds I made were bullying, demanding, cross, advice giving. Take Vitamin D, see the doctor, eat some kale, Oh it gets stuck in your dentures? Well then puree it, for Christ’s sake. Her phrase, mine now, mine alone, for Christ’s sake. I might have managed an Oh poor you, but straight away I’d be back to the advice, the bullying. Poor you left my mouth carrying a shield behind so I wouldn’t feel my clenched stomach muscles, my ribs closing in around my frantic heart. I’d like someone to call. I’d like to have her to call. I’d do it every day. I’d pick up the phone and I’d say, I just wanted to chat. Let’s chat. Let’s talk about anything and everything. I don’t care. I just want to hear your voice. Not feeling well? Oh, I’m sorry. Tell me more? I’d listen and listen and listen. I wouldn’t stir the pot or walk the cat or pluck dead bay leaves. I still have her swear words. I also have her laughter. People comment on my laughter, not knowing where it came from. It’s my secret, a wild, raucous animal caged behind those stomach muscles. Sometimes I let loose and in those moments. I hear her, I am her, head flung back. Alive, alive.