Smiling at a Napkin Ring
         {or, Real Mothers, Please Sit}
    
. . .things you didn’t notice that you  notice,
looking back.  Things so small,  you'd think
they wouldn’t matter.   The time she took
to adjust the light to make home, well,
home.  Not too bright, not too dim.  Not
anything like the green florescents that pinned
you to a desk and forced you to compose.  Not
like the “home”  you and your friend groped
through.   One of you flicked the switch,
every chair, every table, every speck of floor
was littered.  Dirt gummed.  Sure explained
dark. Going back to light,  remember her eyes
watching a silly glass bird you gave her shatter.
Tears flowed because she “shouldn’t have squeezed
so tight.”  Breeze could have broken the silly thing.
Not important, but so, she picked you up
the day of a test she knew had been bugging.
Boss lit into her, you found out by accident.
Part-time gig not the one she needed to take.
She was relieved, she pretended. “Resume
doesn’t need plumping.”  Far less important
things sailed by.  Remember that “had-to-have”
outfit you needed sooooo bad?   “Great sale!”
she crowed.  “Looks like the tag disappeared.”
She had on jeans she had worn since the wheel
was invented.  She saw that at least one flower graced
the kitchen table.  More than once “forgot” to steam
broccoli.  Napkin at each place in a ring she said
looked “like a lump of you-know-what.”   Looked in
at night, knowing you couldn’t really sleep without
her kiss and hug.   She dusted around “valuable” junk.  
She scrubbed her nails brittle; she laughed at jokes
so old they creaked.   Yes, and forgot and called you
by the dog’s name,  dog by yours.  How the two of you
roared.  Yes, and cried.  “Almost died” still rings.
Remind you to tell how napkins poke from rings
on your dining table.  Flower in the middle, flower
at a place for her.   Oh, to hear her carry on.

(c)  Phyllis Jean Green,  May, 2005