Mother’s
Company
by
Marjie Giffin
Mother
is having company.
It’s
been years, but I still recall
turkey
platters and gilded plates,
soup
tureens with china ladles,
crystal
stemware and cubes of ice
that
clinked together musically.
There
were lavender-scented soaps
tucked
amidst lacey table linens
in
drawers so laden with heirlooms
that
Mother would strain to pull
their
polished, glistening handles.
I
could breathe in and catch
the
scent of Chanel No. 5;
I
would steal a peek and see
her
lips pursed before the glass
as
she coated them with red.
Today’s
company is being served
on
paper plates on a kitchen table
so
crammed with paraphernalia
that
the tasteless sandwiches
almost
tip off its edge.
Photos,
stacks of letters, nail files,
coupon
boxes, hosiery eggs –
all
compete for centerpiece space
and
the attention of the
curious
guests who dine.
One
of the favored few shaves
with
an electric razor in between
snatches
of conversation, bites.
Another,
his wife, balances her plate
protectively
between two dry elbows.
I
make clever talk with both, knowing
I
will have hours later to cry.
Bio:
“I am an Indianapolis writer who has recently been published in
Poetry Quarterly, Flying Island, Snapdragon, Words and Sounds, and in
a teaching anthology. I am active with the Indiana Writers Center and
participate in many workshops.”