Leaving Home
In this house the air still smells like your old almond lotion, Mom.
Upstairs you used to let me wear your wedding veil for ceremonies with my bear.
Aunt Dee said I looked like you but in the mirror my face was mine alone.
In August of last year you drove me in the minivan to college.
On the sly I packed your tweezers and your perfume in my duffel bag.
When classes ended I wished you’d bring me ginger ale and chicken soup in bed.
Tucked up onto the couch my pinky toes feel callused just like yours.
Your shower walls have mildew on them – I knew that would make you cry.
Mom, I cannot hear you. I do not know you with those tired eyes.
I baked a chocolate cake last week that tasted nothing like your recipe.
I don’t think you’re boring, Mom – tell me what you’re working on –
I never read a truer story than your one about that long-haired girl.
Why did you make me change my skirt before the sophomore dance?
Mom, when you sent me to my room that night I should’ve gone.
The cupboard shelves in my apartment kitchen hold nothing but crumbs.
Mom, I want to eat your bread and drink your milk, absorb your blood
into my heart because my blood runs cold now that I left you, Mom,
sooner than I should have; I want to curl back up inside you, Mom,
to be nothing more and nothing less than flesh of your freckled flesh.
- Lillian Toumey
Lillian Toumey is a native of Indianapolis and a graduate of IU Bloomington. She currently lives in Boise, Idaho, with her family and returns frequently to the Midwest. Until last year, she taught elementary school at a public school for gifted children in Boise; this year, she is parenting her toddler at home.