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A Different Kind of Story


Mother, you told me stories-
so many while sitting curled in the corner
of the blue-flowered chair
across from the wood-burning stove,
I listened to your voice
which cooed
of your mother and father
during the depression.

Grandfather knew Capone in passing
they ran the moon.
It was not uncommon to see
the backside trucks filled will men
which sped in rich blackness,
racing to places
past the outskirts of dangers hem.

Nor was it uncommon
to see the police at Grandmothers door.
She, a tall 4 foot 2, held steadfast
with her soft face of sincerity
and offered her home to scrutiny.

A search that found three small
girls in curls sleeping in stillness,
it looked almost like you all held
dreams of Christmas in summer.
But beneath the covers were limbs
which swaddled brown bottles tightly,
one movement, only one,
would clamor next months rent.

Minutes
felt timeless
as they watched you girls,
so peaceful they must have thought.
As they shut the door
all sighed remaining stock-still
until grandmother carefully removed
each precious bottle, and the bed
ladled, became empty once more.

Grandmother severed each of you
a penance reward of ten cents,
a small price to pay for survival.